OFFERING OF SYMPATHY 




E6P£Cf ALLT 



So patents fceteabefc of tjjefr CitflTrrett 5 



B*I5G X COLLECTION FROM MANUSCRIPTS AND LET- 
TERS NOT BEFORE PUBLISHED 



N APPENDIX OF* EXTRACTS FROM 



i 



TARIOUS AUTHORS. 

» » 

Third Edition, with Improvement*. 




BOSTOI 
SAMUEL COLM^£>il! 

SUCCESSOR TO LILLY, WAIT & CO. 

1835, 



' 3 - 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1835, 
By S. Colman, Successor to Lilly, Wait & Co. 
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



£44 f 



LC Control Number 



tmp96 031450 



WHO HAVE CONTRIBUTED TO THESE PAGES , 



SSereabetr patents, 



FOR WHOSE SOLACE THEY ARE ESPECIALLY DESIGNED ; 



THIS LITTLE VOLUME 



IS DEDICATED BY 



A PARENT. 



Is it well with the child ? 
And she answered, it is well. 

For of such is the kingdom of God. 



INTRODUCTION. 



In offering this little book for the conso- 
lation of the afflicted, the compiler wishes 
to contribute something to the supply of 
a want, that has been much felt among 
us. The children of sorrow are at all times 
a numerous class of mankind. It pleases 
God that they should always be with us; 
and we ourselves must in our turn become a 
part. Notwithstanding the many valuable 
treatises on other subjects of religion, both 
the experience of ministers, in their offices 
of consolation, and the personal trials of all 
christians sufficiently attest the need there 
yet exists of works, which may meet the va- 
rious conditions of sorrow, and yield the in- 
struction and comforts they may require. 

It will at once be perceived, how largely 
the writer has been indebted to the contribu- 
tions of others. These form the greatest 
and most valuable part of the work. And 



vi 



INTRODUCTION. 



were he at liberty to explain the sources, 
whence some passages, particularly of the 
6 Correspondence,' were derived, or the na- 
ture and variety of the grief, for the relief of 
which others of these pieces were expressly 
written, he doubts not, that independently of 
their intrinsic value, they would command 
the lively interest of the reader. He can 
only express his grateful acknowledgments 
to each and to all of those friends, who 
have so effectually aided his design, either 
by their own productions,* or from those 
private stores, which sympathy in their be- 
reavements had enabled them to gather ; 
and from which, of the kindness ever found 
in the bosom of sanctified affliction, they 
were willing to comfort others with the 
same comforts, with which they themselves 
had been comforted of God. 

As may be inferred from the variety of 
the topics here treated, these pages are de- 
signed, and it is hoped they may not be 
found unsuited, for the consolation of all 
sorrow. Yet there will be perceived a par- 
ticular reference to that grief, which is suf- 

* Of the pieces, forming the body of the work, it may be prop- 
er to add, that two have once before appeared in print : viz. the 
lines to 4 William,' by his father ; and the * Spirit's Song of 
Coniolation.' 



INTRODUCTION. 



vii 



fered by parents, under the loss of chil- 
dren. Of the trials of domestic life, ap- 
pointed of our heavenly Father, none are 
of more frequent occurrence, and none, per- 
haps, which cause a more poignant sorrow, 
than does this. 4 1 have lost my children, 
and am desolate, 5 is the natural language of 
bereaved paternal affection. When the in- 
fant, that had lately entered upon existence, 
or the lovely child, whose powers were just 
! unfolding, 

1 Sweet to the world and grateful to the skies,' 

! in the fullness of health, in the sweetness of 
innocence, and the freshness of hope, is at 
a moment taken from us, who shall utter 
the sorrow, especially of the maternal heart ? 
Yet, heavy as it is, it must be borne for the 
most part in silence. The stranger knows 
j not of it. The acquaintance cannot inter- 
] meddle with it ; and even in the confidence 
of tender friendship, it may not be wise 
often to intrude it. It is to be endured, 
therefore, rather than to be uttered, except 
to Him, whose ear is always open ; whose 
pitying eye is upon his children, and who 
counts their tears. 

From the frequency, moreover, and some- 
rf times the wide extent of such calamities, no 



Vlll 



INTRODUCTION. 



less than from the private nature of the 
sorrow they occasion, they can seldom be 
made the direct topics of consolation from 
the pulpit. The reasons are obvious ; and 
they are sufficient. Such subjects would be 
in danger of engrossing a disproportionate 
share of the public instruction ; and it were 
unreasonable to call upon the sympathies 
of a promiscuous assembly for that, which 
of necessity, could be felt only by a few. 
Hence, the greater need of books of con- 
solation, which may meet the private grief ; 
which may go with us, as a chosen friend, 
into the secret chamber ; may cheer the 
heavy hours of solitude, to which even those 
most richly favoured of christian friend- 
ship, will, at such periods, be left; and 
like the unfailing word, whose 'entrance 
giveth light,' and is itself the exhaustless 
source of comfort, may remain to cheer and 
to instruct, long after the offerings, and with 
them the excitements of sympathy, have 
ceased ; and when even our nearest friends 
may be imagining, that the grief, they were 
at first eager and assiduous to console, has 
passed away. 

Of the compilations of this class, which 
have already been furnished, few appear al- 



INTRODUCTION. ix 

together adapted to their purpose. The of- 
fice of consolation is, in truth, one of diffi- 
culty; and though always welcomed from 
the kind and good, and its simplest expres- 
sions, if only uttered in sincerity, will not 
fail of their intention; yet, for the most 
acceptable performance of it, something 
more is needed than mere zeal, or good 
feeling. A respectful regard for the afflict- 
ed; a certain reverence of sorrow, forbid- 
ding the intrusion of what is doubtful, or 
might be the occasion of pain, is essential 
to him, who would impart comfort. The 
friends of Job, though too ready to reproach 
him, gave one evidence, at least, of a genuine 
sympathy, when they sat down with him for 
a season in silence, * and spake not a word, 
knowing, that his grief was great. 9 Now in 
many of the treatises, usually referred to on 
this subject, we perceive a lamentable defi- 
ciency in that spirit, which in the more fa- 
miliar expressions of condolence, would pre- 
scribe a like deference. In some of them 
we find a coarseness, in others a quaintness 
of language, which are offensive ; and not 
seldom are points of doubtful disputation of- 
ficiously obtruded as essential to an accept- 
able faith, or to the right use of adversity ; 
while the most simple and sustaining views 

B 



X 



INTRODUCTION. 



of God's paternal providence, of his merci- 
ful designs, and some of the choicest conso- 
lations, which spring from the religion of 
Christ, are as strangely overlooked. 

With the belief, that works of this de- 
scription are jet needed among us, and with 
a desire to meet, in some measure, a want, 
which the course of professional duty had 
shown to be urgent, the writer presents this 
little volume to the bereaved and afflicted. 
Possibly it may add something to a confi- 
dence, essential to the efficacy of the sym- 
pathy, it expresses ; at least, it may obtain 
indulgence for those portions of the book, 
which alone will need it, if he add, that it 
was suggested by a severe domestic calami- 
ty, by which a very lovely child, in full 
health, and promise, was suddenly taken 
away. He will be happy, if a private grief 
shall thus have ministered to the consola- 
tion of others ; if a little child, who had 
become the object, perhaps of a too fond 
dependance, shall by the grief of her early 
departure, have taught him more effectually 
how to sympathize with the sorrowful. 

F. Parkman, 



ADVERTISEMENT TO SECOND EDITION. 



The compiler has been gratified to learn, 
that this little book has afforded consolation 
to many in their affliction, and particularly 
to that class of mourners, for whose benefit 
it was originally designed. In this second 
edition the plan has been somewhat ex- 
tended ; and with some corrections and im- 
provements of the former, will be found an 
original article on the 6 uses of affliction,' 
and several additional selections in the 
appendix adapted to the wants of the sor- 
rowful of all descriptions. 

Boston, May 1st, 1833. 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

Dedication iii 

Preface v 

Advertisement to second edition viii 

Duty of preparation for adversity. 

F. Parkman 1 

Resignation to the Divine Will, (two 
parts.) 

F. Parkman 11. 16 

Sufferings and deaths of children, consist- 
ent with the Divine Goodness. 

E. S. Gannett. 21 

Consolations under the deaths of chil- 
dren. 

A. Lamson 31 

Re-union of the virtuous in a state of 
happiness after death. 

F. W. P. Greenwood. .- 36 

Christ's legacy to his disciples. 

G. Ripley 48 

Fragments. 

Letter from ***, to a sister after a severe 
bereavement. 

H*** 56 

c 



xiv 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

Letter from a father to his daughter after 

the death of a lovely boy. 

j B ******. 59 

From Rev. William Emerson to esteemed 
parishioners, after repeated bereave- 
ments of their children 64 

Letters from near friends to a breaved 

friend and mother 63 



Reflections on visiting the grave of a 
child. 

W. B. O. Peabody 79 

To William, by his father. 

W. B. O. Peabody 87 

The christian's solace, under the loss of 
virtuous friends. 

G. Ripley 89 

Jesus Christ the true source of consola- 
tion. 

A. Young 97 

The improvement to be derived from ex- 
amples of sudden death, 

W. E. Channing 104 

The christian's victory over death. 

J. A. Walker 116 

The occasions and remedy of excessive 
grief. 

F. Parkman 127 

The contemplation of nature, a source of 
consolation. 

F. W. P. Greenwood 136 

The duty of gratitude amidst sorrow. 

F. Parkman 140 



INDEX. XV 

PAGE 

The influence of the dead on the living. 

A. Young 150 

The efficacy of religious consolation. 

W. H. Furness 160 

Man's will conformed to God's will. 

M. I. Motte 165 

A letter to a friend, under deep affliction. 

J. Allen 172 

The dangers and temptations of adver- 
sity. 

F. Parkman 176 

Uses of affliction. 

J. Brazer /. 189 

The spirit's song of consolation. 

F. W. P. Geenwood 201 



APPENDIX. 



Introduction. 

F. Parkman 205 

Memoirs of John Evelyn, Esquire, record- 
ing the deaths of his son and daughter 208 

Letter of condolence to J. Evelyn. 

Bishop Taylor 215 

A hymn to a child. 

T. K. Hervey 220 

Letter of Sir William Temple to Lady 
Essex ; 222 



xvi 



APPENDIX. 



PAGE 

A christian mother, on the death of a darl- 
ing child. 

R. Wardlaw 224 

Extract of a discourse by Rev. W. B. O. Peabody. 227 

Letter of Rev. Dr Balfour, of Glasgow, 
on the death of his only son 233 

Extract from a sermon of Rev. Dr Barnes, 
after the funeral of his only daughter 238 

Speech of the Rev. Samuel Danforth, at 

the grave of three of his children 241 

Extracts from the life and character of 

James Hay Beattie, by his father 244 

' The springs of comfort opened in the gos- 
pel/ by J. Thornton 249 

Examples of suffering : 251 

A hymn : i Sorrowing, not without hope/ 

by Charles Wesley 255 

A letter on the death of a favourite 

daughter 256 

To H , on the death of a young child 260 

Extract from Rev. R. Morehead's dis- 
course on religious consolation 262 

To a dying infant 267 



IButg of preparation for gftbersftg. 

Forasmuch as Christ has suffered for us, — arm yourselves like- 
wise with the same mind. — St Peter. 

It is the province of religion to prepare 
us for the vicissitudes of life. It is the 
peculiar province of the religion of Jesus 
Christ to inculcate such truths, to suggest 
such motives, to inspire such hopes, as 
shall prepare us to meet all the appoint- 
ments of God — both what he ordains, 
and what he permits — with a confiding 
temper. For this, as well as for other 
great purposes, it holds up to our view and 
imitation the example of Jesus Christ, in the 
faithfulness of his obedience and the cheer- 
fulness of his submission to the will of his 
Father. And one of his apostles, in antici- 
pating the sufferings to which his first fol- 
lowers, and, we may add, his disciples in 
every age were to be called, exhorts, that 
they arm themselves with the same mind ; 
that they put on the same holy courage, with 
which their divine master met the trials to 
which he was appointed. St Paul also, with 
a fine allusion to the christian state as a 
2 

I 



warfare, exhorts, that they put on the whole 
armour of God ; that they place themselves, 
as it were, in the attitude of men, who ex- 
pected, and would prepare themselves to 
meet calamity ; standing perfect and com- 
plete in all the will of God. 

These precepts, though addressed to chris- 
tians of an earlier age, lose nothing of their 
application to us, who, with them, are pil- 
grims in an uncertain world, and must ex- 
pect vicissitude. And it is obviously the 
suggestion of wisdom and piety to enquire, 
how we may prepare ourselves for such 
changes, and with what temper they should 
be sustained. 

1. Preparation for sorrow implies, as we 
may first remark, a reasonable expectation 
of it. An expectation founded on just views, 
such as reason, observation, experience, and 
the word of God enforce, of the uncertainty 
of our condition here ; of the frailty of our 
possessions, and of our lives; of the designs 
of God concerning us in this world, and of 
the influence of adversity to prepare us for 
a better. He, who considers his feeble 
frame ; the diseases and accidents to which 
he is liable ; the narrow term, within the 
bounds of which the longest life is limited ; 



3 



the uncertainties to which the securest pos- 
sessions are exposed ; who looks around the 
community in which he lives, and marks the 
ravages that a few years can make upon 
the comforts, treasures, and friendships, even 
of the most prosperous ; who sees one gen- 
eration passing away, and the places that 
knew his friends knowing them no more ; 
the domestic abode changing its inhabit- 
ants; families, once numerous and opulent, 
flourishing in peace and honour, utterly 
gone, or reduced in a few individuals that 
survive, to a comfortless dependance ; their 
splendid mansions, once the abode of plea- 
sure, the seat of generous hospitality, and the 
refuge of the needy, laid in melancholy ru- 
ins, or transformed into resorts of business, 
or as resting places of the traveller ; when 
he visits the house of God, and with a few 
annual revolutions observes what new ap- 
pearances are presented, and looks in vain 
for faces he had long known and welcomed 
there — when, I say, he considers all this, 
he will think it reasonable to expect change. 
He will not flatter himself that he is to be 
exempted ; nor vainly imagine that his 
mountain will stand, while all things else 
are moving. He will perceive, that the prin- 
ciples of change are inherent in the very na- 



4 



ture and condition of his being. The whole 
history of the community in which he lives, 
all that he is called to observe or suffer, will 
conspire with the clear monitions of God's 
word to teach him that preparation for sor- 
row is the part of wisdom ; that however 
bright may be his prospects ; however large, 
and, to the earthly eye, secure his posses- 
sions ; however sacred and endearing the 
relations by which he is united, he must not 
hope for exemption. Nay, that in propor- 
tion to the variety and extent of his com- 
forts, to the number of the friends, on whom 
his heart relies, is his exposure to change. 

2. This duty of preparation for the loss 
of our blessings demands from us also a 
faithful improvement of them, while they 
are continued. The thought of their uncer- 
tain stay, and that at any moment they may 
be withdrawn, will mingle itself with our 
uses of them, and will moderate also our 
expectations concerning them. We shall 
not fail to enjoy them, for this is demanded 
from our gratitude. This is the clear dic- 
tate of duty ; and it is no part of the chris- 
tian, who believes in God, and believes also 
in Christ, trusts in a perfect Providence, and 
has a hope full of immortality, to go 4 sor- 
rowing all his days.' But he will improve 



them as one, who remembers that this is not 
the scene of enjoyment or of rest ; that it is 
in the world to come, not that in which he 
lives, that he must look for the fullest grati- 
fications of his affections, and for his high- 
est pleasures. 

Who of us, but may have suffered some 
pangs of regret, when a gift has been taken, 
from us, that we have prized it so little, or 
so negligently improved it 1 It is one of the 
most common evidences of our wayward dis- 
positions, to think little of the good we pos- 
sess, and much of that we have lost. Our 
blessings rise in our estimation, as they are 
departing from us ; and when once they are 
gone, memory and fancy recall, with a per- 
verse fidelity, all that there was in them for 
our gratitude and pleasure. We value high- 
ly the opportunities of usefulness, or the 
means of happiness, which we can no longer 
command. We think tenderly of the scenes, 
from which we are removing ; and espe- 
cially, if we are to quit them, as we think, 
forever, how fondly and sadly do we num- 
ber the days of comfort and delight, we have 
spent in them. The most indifferent objects 
of inanimate nature array themselves to our 
busy, our diseased imaginations in unwonted 
beauties. And we can then understand what 
2* 



6 



was meant by the captive Israelites, when 
mourning in a strange and distant country, 
over the desolations of their temple, ' Thy 
servants take pleasure in its stones; and fa- 
vour the dust thereof.' 

Particularly, of the friendships and en- 
deared connexions of life, when absence in- 
terrupts, or death is commissioned to sever 
— how tender, how sacred, the recollections! 
We dwell with mournful veneration on the 
lips, that are soon to be silenced in the grave. 
We summon all that love and gratitude can 
suggest, to heighten our esteem of the friend 
we had enjoyed, but can enjoy no longer. 

Now it is the part of wisdom ; it is essen 
tial to our preparation for the day of calam- 
ity, to be faithful to our blessings, while yet 
they are with us. It is wise to protect our- 
selves from unavailing sorrows, and the re- 
proach of undervalued or neglected privi- 
leges. Christian, hath God imparted to thee 
of the fulness of his bounty ? Hath he in- 
trusted thee with wealth, and made thee re- 
sponsible, by placing at thy disposal the re- 
sources of happiness 1 Then must thou act 
as his steward, and employ thy treasure and 
opportunity to his glory ; then must there be 
with thee the spirit of moderation, and the 
heavenly mind, to control and sanctify thy 
use of things temporal, * lest thy table be a 



7 



snare, and that which God gave for thy wel- 
fare, become a trap.' 

Are you blest, my brother, in the friends 
of your heart ? Are there yet with you 
those, and perhaps not a few, whom your 
soul loveth ? Are you walking in the light, 
and are still gladdened by the presence of a 
venerated parent, in the wisdom of whose 
counsel, in the purity and integrity of whose 
life, in whose tried and faithful affection, you 
can securely trust 1 Is it yet with you as 
in the days of your youth, when the secret 
of God was upon your tabernacle? And 
the wife of your bosom, and the children of 
your hopes — are they about you 7 Then 
may you rejoice — yea, and you should re- 
joice. Only remember, that at the word of 
God, these choicest of your temporal bles- 
sings may be withdrawn. And so live with 
your friends as heirs of the grace of life, 
that when they are gone, you may call up 
their memories without distress ; and find 
them hereafter with the treasure laid up in 
heaven. 

3. Another most important preparation 
for the calamities which may be appointed, 
is in the faithful discharge of duty, and in 
the answer of a good conscience. 4 It is 
better,' says an apostle, ' that ye suffer in 



s 



well doing than for evil doing.' In the 

strength of an approving conscience, we can 
meet with composure the chastisements of 
God ; and, in the light of an approving con- 
science, we can see the mercy, that is min- 
gled with judgment. But wretched indeed is 
that man, who is compelled to endure, at 
once, the rebukes of heaven, and the up- 
braidings of a heart not right with God. 
The spirit of a man, we are told, will sus- 
tain his infirmity. The natural vigour and 
courage of his soul, sustained by religious 
faith, may avail him under the ordinary 
trials of his lot. ' But if,' as observes a 
wise interpreter of that text, 4 within him 
the disease of sin be rankling; if that which 
should support serves but to torment him, to 
what quarter can he look for relief? To 
what medicine shall he apply, when that 
which might have cured his wounds is itself 
diseased and wounded V 

Besides, let it not be forgotten, that it is 
one effect of adversity to awaken the con- 
science ; to give tenderness and susceptibility 
to the moral feelings. The palliatives, we 
may administer in the day of prosperity, 
may prove successful. They may soothe us 
for a season. They may silence the clam- 
ours of self-reproach. It is possible, that 



9 



amidst the engagements of business, or the 
allurements of pleasure, the festive scenes 
of youth, or the more sober passions and 
engrossing cares of advancing life, the moni- 
tor within may never be heard. But let 
God speak the word, and commission his 
ministers of justice ; let the sinner be strip- 
ped of the riches, in which he had trusted ; 
let pain and disease rack his frame, and 
thus teach him that he is mortal, and shall 
die ; let death enter his dwelling, and bear 
from him one, and perhaps another, in whom 
he had trusted, and convince him by his own 
personal sufferings of the vanity of his best 
possessions ; and then, if amidst all or any 
of these visitations from heaven, conscience 
is inflicting also its secret torments — mise- 
rable indeed is that man. 

If then, we would fortify ourselves against 
the day of trouble, and secure, when we 
shall most need them, the strength and sol- 
ace of religion, we must keep to ourselves 
the answer of a good conscience ; and be 
able amidst all care and grief, to say, 4 our 
rejoicing is this : that in simplicity and sin- 
cerity we have lived in the world.' 4 Behold, 
now, my witness is in heaven, and my re- 
cord with the Most High.' 

4. A just estimate, also, of the objects of 



10 



this world, and of those especially, which 
are usually regarded as essential to happi- 
ness, will assist us to meet its trials. The 
conviction, too, of our ignorance of what is 
best for us, and a filial readiness to commit 
to the 4 only wise God,' all our lot, will for- 
tify our spirits. Knowing, as the apostle 
teaches, that the things that are seen, are 
temporal, we shall lift our eyes and our 
hearts to the things eternal. In the faith 
and hopes of a true disciple, we shall look 
for strength amidst weakness, and for the 
solace of our griefs, to that better country, 
where nothing is transient ; even to the city 
that hath foundations, whose builder and 
whose maker is God. 

5. And, lastly, we may effectually arm 
ourselves against every evil that can assail 
us here, by an unqualified trust in God ; by 
the conviction that all which he ordains is 
wise and kind ; and that nothing is permit- 
ted, or can take place under his control, that 
shall not work for good, to them that love 
him. For all the ways of God are mercy 
and truth, to them that fear him. Light is 
sown for the righteous, and gladness for the 
upright in heart. To the faithful children 
of the Most High, who endure and suffer 
well, there is given by Christ Jesus the as- 



11 



surance of faith, that what they know not 
now, they shall know hereafter ; that this 
God, of whom the Son has taught them, 
shall be their guide even unto death. Nor 
will he leave them there. His rod and staff 
wilt be with them through the dark valley ; 
and through the ages of eternity, he will be 
their salvation and joy. F. P. 



3SU»ifluattoti to tje 33tbme OTtll. 

It is the Lord. Let him do what seemeth him good. 

This is the language of resignation. In 
these words of the prophet, we may mark 
the temper with which every child of God 
must prepare himself to meet the appoint- 
ments of his heavenly Father. To ordain, 
to bestow, and to chasten, is the prerogative 
of God. To obey, to receive, to submit, is 
the duty of man. The sovereign arbiter 
of our lot, the God, who formed and fash- 
ioned us, holds an undeniable claim upon 
our blessings and hopes. Nor is it more of 
the glory of his bounty to give, than it is of 
the faithfulness of his judgments to take 
away. This is a lesson, which sooner or 



12 



later, we must learn ; and never shall we 
have found the true source of comfort, nor 
peace to our souls, amidst the disquietudes 
of life, til] we have acquired this spirit of 
unreserved submission ; till with a filial tem- 
per we can look upon ourselves, our friends, 
our best possessions, and most cherished 
hopes, and then look upward to the God of 
heaven, whose bounty gave them all, and 
say, 'Lord, here are we: — Let him do with 
us as it seemeth good unto him.' 

Resignation is submission, without mur- 
mur, to the will of God ; the yielding of our 
blessings at his call. It is not indifference 
or insensibility, but acquiescence to what 
we know and feel to be an evil, simply be- 
cause it is his holy pleasure. It is therefore 
a sentiment, at once, of the understanding 
and of the heart ; of the mind, as it compre- 
hends, of the heart, as it loves, and desires 
to devote itself to God. It is a temper, es- 
sential to the character of children ; and to 
their comfort also under the most common 
trials of life. We may find place for its 
exercise, even while in the possession of 
much, that to the worldly eye, passes for 
prosperity. For amidst the fairest and the 
brightest scenes of life, many disappoint- 
ments, many troubles may arise, to demand 



13 



our submission. Under trials of this class, 
as well as all those afflictions which are 
inseparable from our condition here, the 
very terms on which we hold existence, 
many topics of consolation are readily sug- 
gested. We can remember the gracious 
design of such affliction ; the uncertainty 
of all earthly good ; the blessings that are 
yet remaining, and the mercy, therefore, 
that is mingled with the judgment. But 
there are cases of peculiar and aggravated 
grief. And when sorrow cometh in like a 
flood ; when Jehovah, in some awful Provi- 
dence, is passing before us as in thick clouds 
of the sky, and his waves and billows are 
rolling over us ; when by a desolating stroke, 
he spoils us forever of the fondest object of 
earthly dependance, the soul of the submis- 
sive sufferer can find rest in God alone. It 
forsakes those inferior objects, on which, 
under a less calamity, it might have reposed. 
It overlooks even those subordinate truths 
which might have been sufficient for a less 
poignant grief ; and humbling itself before 
the majesty of heaven, it implores refuge 
from him alone. 6 My soul, wait thou only 
upon God — my expectation is from Him.' 

Nor is this sentiment of complete submis- 
sion, after the calamity is appointed, in the 
3 



14 



smallest degree incompatible with a previous 
earnestness of entreaty, that it maybe avert- 
ed. Before the divine pleasure concerning 
us, or our friends, is determined, we are 
permitted to express the desires of our souls. 
We are encouraged, nay, blessed be his 
name for this privilege of prayer — we are 
commanded to pray for what seemeth good 
to us, provided it is good also to him- While 
the child was yet alive, said David, I fasted 
and prayed ; for I said, who can tell, whether 
God will be gracious to me, that the child 
may live. And the Son of God, that pat- 
tern of all virtue, before he expressed the 
deep submission of his soul, had thrice ear- 
nestly prayed, 4 O my Father, if it be possi- 
ble let this cup pass from me.' But when 
he knew assuredly, that the cup was appoint- 
ed, silent acquiescence took the place of 
prayer. 6 The cup, which my Father hath 
given me — shall I not drink it V Thus al- 
so should it ever be with us. When fear 
of sorrow presses upon the heart ; when, in 
near or distant view, the tempest of adver- 
sity seems gathering around us ; especially, 
at that sad hour, when the king of terrors 
is approaching to separate those, who knew 
but one heart and one hope — then, amidst 
the tumult and perplexity of grief, we may 



15 



pray to God. We may entreat with the 
importunity of prayer, that the cup may 
pass. But as soon as a sovereign God has 
signified his pleasure, and death has fulfilled 
the decree, and borne beyond the reach of 
supplication or tears, the object of our love 
— then comes the costly sacrifice of faith, 
the demanded homage of our submission. 
Then must we be still, and know that it is 
God. Then must we say with him, who 
hath taught us of the Father, 4 Not my will, 
but thine be done.' 

It becomes us to make this the prevailing 
temper of our minds under all adversity, 
and even in our darkest hours, in the loss 
of what of earthly good was most precious 
to our souls, we must lift our filial eye to 
heaven, and, though it be amidst tears, that 
nature cannot, and religion requires not, to 
restrain, we must say, 4 The Lord gave, and 
the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the 
name of the Lord.' 

v F. P. 



! 



3&esfflttatfoti to tje 2Btbfne Will 



PART SECOND. 

The cup which my Father hath given me — shall T not 
drink it? — Jesus Christ. 

There are many reasons, why we should 
accept the cup, which our heavenly Father 
offers us ; why we should cherish and exhib- 
it the spirit, of which our Master has here 
given us the beautiful example. We admit, 
that it is the cup of sorrow; for this, the 
very duty of which we are speaking, implies, 
and that it is sometimes mingled in bitter- 
ness. It may be sickness and pain, from 
which nature shrinks instinctively ; it may 
be reproach, or wounded friendship, or dis- 
appointed hope, in which the heart only can 
know of its own anguish. It may be bereave- 
ment, spoiling us of the much loved, the most 
cherished object of our soul, and turning af- 
fection and joy to darkness and dust. It 
may be the cup of death, the last enemy 
which cometh to all, and may come to us, 
when it is least desired ; yet, shall we not 



17 



drink it ? For, consider the wisdom and 
love, the correction and the faithfulness, 
with which it is mingled. 

1. It is appointed of God ; of him, the 
sovereign arbiter, the creator of all worlds, 
on whom the universe depends, by whose 
might it is upheld, with whose glory it is 
filled, in whom we ourselves live, and move, 
and have a being. It is appointed of him, 
the omnipotent and all-wise, who set the sun 
in the heavens and kindled the stars ; who 
clothes the earth in beauty and paints every 
flower of the field, and satisfies the wants of 
every living thing ; but at whose rebuke the 
pillars of heaven tremble, and the everlast- 
ing hills do bow. Of him, who dwells in 
light inaccessible, and in glory, which no 
eye hath seen ; but who can make darkness 
also his pavilion, and cover the heavens with 
sackcloth, and seal up the stars. Can we 
refuse it from him, whose righteousness and 
truth, like his wisdom and his power, knows 
no limits, and admit no change : who doeth 
what he pleaseth, and whom none may re- 
sist. 

This view of the sovereignty of God, of 
his irresistible power and unalienable right, 
may serve, in the hour of overwhelming 
sorrow, to silence the murmuring or rebel- 



IS 



lious thought. It may rebuke the most pre- 
sumptuous, who would resist, if they could, 
the decrees of heaven. But, to the true 
child of God, who mingles his reverence of 
an infinite majesty with confidence in an 
unerring wisdom, it produces far nobler con- 
ceptions and worthier feelings. It awakens 
that salutary reverence, that holy fear, which 
with filial love is inseparable from true devo- 
tion, and which can find, even in the tender 
mercies of a being like God, something grand 
and humbling to the soul. 4 Thou shalt fear 
the Lord and his goodness,' is a command of 
Jehovah, perfectly compatible with the high- 
est exercise of that goodness itself — a good- 
ness which is at once so glorious in its mani- 
festations, so adorable, and so gracious, both 
when it gives and when it takes, that it be- 
comes the object of our filial awe as well as 
trust ; and therefore it is declared, that ' the 
nations of the earth shall fear and tremble 
for the goodness he hath shown them.' 

2. But beside the sovereignty of God, 
there are views of his paternal character, 
more peculiarly adapted to soothe and sus- 
tain the soul. 4 The cup which my Father 
hath given me — shall I not drink it V Can 
you refuse it, child of God, from your fa- 
ther, your wisest, kindest, and most faithful 



19 



friend? From Him, the giver of all life and 
hope, who breathed you from his spirit, gave 
you an existence in his world, and a soul 
to reflect his image, and share his immor- 
tality ? Can you refuse it from Him, who 
rocked the cradle of your infancy ; lent you 
parents and kind friends to sustain you, when 
you had no power to sustain yourself ; who 
has spread for you each day, his liberal ta- 
ble ; upheld you every moment by his pa- 
rental arm ; from whose exhaustless bounty, 
you have every thing you enjoy, and every 
thing you hope ? Who, in your prosperity, 
kindles for you the smile of congratulation, 
causing others to rejoice with you, and glad- 
dens you by the solace of sympathy ; who 
has never forgotten you amidst all your for- 
getfulness of Him ? Will you refuse it, 
child of affliction, from Him, who has not 
only made all nature contribute to your 
good, but has opened to the eye of your 
faith a brighter world than nature can pro- 
mise, for the light and salvation of your soul? 
From Him, who has enriched you with all 
spiritual blessings, through Christ Jesus ; 
provided for you in his gospel a supply of all 
spiritual want, a remedy for all ills, a solace 
for all grief, and hopes, that are full of im- 
mortality. Will you refuse it from Him, 



20 



your God and Father, who has sent his own 
son to bless you ; and to teach you that all 
his government arid all his law, in every part 
and dispensation, alike in its gifts and in- 
flictions, is a law of love. 

How inestimable is this assurance of the pa- 
ternal character of God, when we are called 
to endure the chastisements of his hand. We 
should never cease to bless him, that amidst 
the clouds and darkness that hang around 
him, faith can penetrate the gloom, and see 
him as a Father. Faith can hear the voice 
speaking, 4 1, even I, am He, that comfort- 
eth thee. When thou passest through the 
waters, I will be with thee, and through the 
floods, they shall not overflow thee, for I 
am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Isra- 
el, thy Saviour.' And the author and finish- 
er of this faith has declared, 6 The Father 
himself loveth you. Let not your hearts be 
troubled.' 

F. P. 



Suffertttfls attir 23eatf)s of <&t>lVttxm <£ottststeirt 



■WITH THE 

The child, that is born unto thee, shall surely die. 
ii Samuel, 12, 14. 

If we put out of view the existence of 
moral evil, the sufferings and death of young 
children present the most difficult circum- 
stance in the divine providence. We feel 
neither surprise, nor a disposition to repine, 
when the infirm old man is removed from a 
world which he can no longer serve, nor en- 
joy. When death lays its grasp upon the 
vigorous and useful, we find solace in the 
recollection of the good which they have 
done, and in the proofs they have given of 
preparation for other scenes of improve- 
ment. If pain or sickness visit one who can 
understand and use it as moral discipline, 
we perceive the wisdom that provides, in 
bodily suffering, the means of lasting bene- 
fit to the mind. But that an infant, of a 
few days or months old, should endure se- 



22 



vere distress, and be called to resign the 
life, of which it had scarcely become con- 
scious ; or that the child, who was just be- 
ginning to discover the powers with which 
he was intrusted, should be snatched away, 
as if in mockery of hope, is a circumstance, 
which it does not seem so easy to reconcile 
with the benevolence of the Deity. 

Yet there are considerations to satisfy us 
that the providence, which permits suffering 
and death to come upon little children, is not 
inconsistent with the goodness of God. 

We must not overstate the difficulty, or 
present it in a stronger light, than can be 
justified by facts. In considering the evils 
incident to childhood, we must be mindful 
also of its pleasures. Infancy is seldom 
called to endure an excess of pain. Its mo- 
tions, its smiles, its moments of quiet wake- 
fulness, are evidences of happy feeling. 
There are indications of the exercise of in- 
tellect and affection at a very early age. It 
may be impossible for us to estimate the 
amount of happiness that has been experi- 
enced ; but it is a very rare occurrence, that 
a child of a few months, or even a few days 
old, dies without having found, in the short 
period of its existence here, a balance of 
good over evil. Life has been, on the whole, 



23 



a blessing; and therefore, no argument is 
furnished against the divine benevolence. 

Neither is it just to say, that children can- 
not receive benefit from sickness. It not 
unfrequently preserves them from other evils 
to -which they might be exposed. Besides 
this, there is that beautiful law of our nature, 
by which attendance on the wants of the suf- 
fering endears to us the object of our kind- 
ness. A child, to whom a mother has been 
devoted during months of illness, is regarded 
by her with more tender, though not more 
sincere affection, than that which she feels 
for her other children ; and a compensation 
is thus provided, both for maternal anxiety 
and for infantile suffering. 

In regard to the death of children, it may 
be observed, that if we are believers in the 
revelation of the gospel, we look upon every 
human being, however brief the term of its 
residence on earth, as an heir of immortal- 
ity. This life is the passage through which 
the soul enters the spiritual world. Whether 
there are other avenues, by which that world 
receives increase of the number of its inhab- 
itants, we do not know. This may be the 
only state whence accessions are made to 
the immortal family of heaven. But on this 
fact we may rely with the confidence of chris- 



tian faith — that the souls of those, who die 
in early childhood, exchange the garment of 
mortality for an incorruptible life. Here 
there is occasion for praise, rather than sor- 
row. In creating a spirit to be a partaker 
of his own eternity s God is pleased to intrust 
it, for a short time, to the care of human pa- 
rents. They behold the dawn of an endless 
day — the first impulses of a mind that shall 
never cease to act. Is not this a privilege 
that demands devout acknowledgment ? Is 
it reasonable to complain because it is not 
of longer continuance 1 To have introduced 
a soul to eternal glory is, methinks, a just 
occasion for gratitude and joy. We are 
anxious to have the precious things of earth 
in our possession, though we can retain 
them but a little while. We esteem it a 
favour, if a friend commits to our charge, 
for a few days only, a valuable picture, or 
even a rich flower, when its beauty is con- 
cealed in the bud. And is it not a favour to 
have the precious things of heaven lent to 
us? to have souls committed to our charge, 
though their beauty be not unfolded ; and 
they be taken away while yet in the germ ? 

We might, on the other hand, putting 
aside the testimony of revelation, derive 
from the death of children a presumption 



25 

in favour of the doctrine of immortality. 
For let it be admitted, that all the elements 
of human character are wrapped up in the 
infant mind, and it will be difficult for us, I 
think, to believe that God would bring into 
existence, every year, thousands, nay, mil- 
lions of minds, containing the seeds of per- 
fection, only to be destroyed by death. Such 
fickleness of purpose, or inability to execute 
a design, or indifference to its success — for 
to one or other, or all of these causes must 
we ascribe this result — might be found in 
man ; but are inconsistent with the charac- 
ter of God. Let it be supposed, that the 
child possesses all the capacities which, 
should it arrive at adult age, would exist in 
j the man; and their present immaturity sug- 
|, gests the probability of their development 
elsewhere, should it be prevented here. The 
. child that has just awakened to the con- 
sciousness of a rational nature ; the sinless 
} infant, whose capacities have never been 
i brought into action ; shall he drop into anni- 
, (hilation, before the humanity, with which he 
I is endowed, shall have had opportunity for 
i exercise 1 Is it not more probable that the 
i? sun, which has shed a beneficial light, and 
has rejoiced in its course, shall sink into the 
f domains of everlasting darkness, than that 



26 



the luminary which has shot a single beam 
across the morning sky, shall be stricken for- 
ever from the lights of the creation ? 

The loss of children seems to bring us 
into acquaintance with the world of spirits. 
It is true, after the death of any relative or 
friend, whom we tenderly loved, that the 
unseen state appears to have been opened to 
our view ; we at least know some of its in- 
habitants. A change takes place in our 
feelings concerning another world ; it has 
acquired in our judgment more of the char- 
acter of reality ; it is nearer to us ; we have 
formed a permanent connexion with it. It 
is not only the abode of angels, of whom we 
know so little, and of Jesus, whom, though 
we love, we have not seen, but of one whom 
we have seen and known, and loved — one 
like ourselves, of the same race of beings. 
Our minds are affected, as when a member 
of our family removes to a distant country, 
of which we have read, and believed what 
others have written ; but now we have a 
more immediate sense of its existence, and 
though our friend should not write to us, yet 
our knowledge of his residence there makes 
us feel that we have some interest in the 
place : it is not altogether a strange land. 
So when our faith beholds a friend passing 



27 



the barriers of time, we feel that we sustain 
a personal relation to eternity, and through 
our former intimacy with him, from whom 
we shall no more receive intelligence, we 
are connected with the affairs of the spirit- 
ual world. This feeling is certainly not less 
deep or active, when the parent has resigned 
his child to the power of death, than after oth- 
er forms of bereavement. It probably is then 
awakened in its full strength, especially in 
the mother's heart. When the infant over 
whom she has watched with mingled joy and 
anxiety, who has lain in her bosom, and 
whose life has been almost identified with 
her own, is taken from her sight, the tie is 
not broken which bound her to the being 
with whom she had this intimate union. 
! The chain of sympathies, by which they 



were drawn so closely together, is untwined, 
only to be extended from this to another 
world. The parent regards the state of the 
departed, wherever, and whatever it may be, 
1 as possessing something which was once 
' ^ hers, and in which she had a more absolute 
property than any one else, excepting God. 
Sl ' That state therefore, cannot be to her alto- 
¥ gether unknown ; it holds what was once 
^ her treasure, her delight, her hope, and it is 
*! 3 no longer a world to which she is a stranger. 



28 



The advantages of this sense of connection 
with the invisible and the future are obvious. 
If it be not cherished to such a degree as to 
interfere with the discharge of present duty, 
or the enjoyment of blessings that remain, 
it is highly valuable, by withdrawing the 
mind from its dependance upon the things 
of earth, and infusing a tone of spirituality 
into the general tenor of its feelings. 

There is yet another view of the connec 
tion between the two worlds, of which the 
earthly guardian becomes sensible through 
the death of a child, and which may even 
be said to be created by this event. The 
infant is taken away before it is capable of 
self-direction. It will need teachers and 
protectors there as well as here. It will not 
be left alone ; it is borne by ministering 
spirits into the household of the saints, or 
into some one of the bright companies of 
angels, from whom those will be selected 
who shall be intrusted with its education. 
The offices, which parental love was anxious 
to perform on earth, will be rendered by in- 
habitants of heaven. Powers, that were 
scarce opened to the light of discipline here, 
will be unfolded under the tutelage of the 
blessed; where the infirmities and errors, 
that reduce the benefits of instruction here, 



29 



will not embarrass the pupil or the teacher. 
Mothers, your children have found other 
friends, whose love is as pure, and whose 
care is more judicious than yours would 
have been. They have been embraced in 
the arms of spiritual affection ; sickness 
and pain they left with the flesh, and their 
immortal wants shall have abundant supply. 
Fathers, your sons will receive a better 
education than you could have given them, 
though your lives had been devoted to their 
improvement. How peculiar and intimate 
a connexion is here established between 
earth and heaven, between mortal parents 
and the celestial guardians of their off- 
spring. Imagination must be checked or 
it will, with such materials of thought, em- 
ploy itself amidst visions of the spiritual 
world, to the neglect of the demands which 
our present life urges. 

Another, and a distinct benefit, of which 
the sufferings and death of children may be 
the occasion, is a better acquaintance with 
the character of God. He has chosen the 
paternal relation as that through which he 
would reveal himself to mankind, by the 
gospel of Jesus Christ. It is as a Father 
that he would be known, and loved, and 
feared, and obeyed, and imitated. It is as 
4* 



30 



a Father that he observes, chastises, assists, 
and judges us. It is as a Father that he 
loves us. The more perfect, therefore, is 
our idea of the parental relation, the nearer 
may we approach to a conception of his 
character, at least in its aspects towards us. 
An acquaintance with the wants of child- 
hood ; a knowledge of the support and care 
which must be afforded it ; an experience of 
the anxiety which its sickness produces, and 
of the feelings consequent on the fatal issue 
of disease, are sources of instruction. The 
earthly parent is made to understand more 
fully the nature of his relation to the tender 
object of his regard, and thence may form a 
more complete image of the relation which 
the Infinite Parent sustains to him. He al- 
so perceives the character of the filial rela- 
tion, in the dependance of his child upon 
him, and the obedience which he claims, and 
he may thus more clearly discern his own 
relation to the Father of the universe. The 
familiar saying, that our blessings are sel- 
dom justly appreciated until they are taken 
from us, is true in this connexion. Parents 
are often taught the value of that happiness 
which proceeds from their domestic ties, and 
the strength of that affection which they 
bear to their offspring, by the sickness of a 



31 



child, or its removal to another world. At 
such times, a mind disposed to receive ad- 
vantage from trial will discover, in the inten- 
sity of its own feelings, an illustration of that 
love which we are justified, and even requir- 
ed by Christianity, to believe our Creator 
cherishes for us. Under such teaching it is 
barely possible, that piety should not acquire 
the character of child-like love and obedi- 
ence. While the parent is enduring the an- 
guish of declining hope, or of bereavement, 
the child of God is learning to trust in Him 
with a filial submission, and to rejoice in his 
mm E. S. G. 



Consolations tintrer tie SJeatJjs of Cjnltrren, 

I shall go to hirn ; but he shall not return to me. 
ii Samuel, 12. 13. 

Piety is the natural refuge of the sorrow- 
stricken and burdened spirit. Borne down 
by adversity, or oppressed with grief, we turn 
our steps to God's altars, and seek in the 
promises and hopes of religion that allevi- 
ation and support, which the world cannot 
yield. 



32 



We cannot reverse the decrees of heaven. 
We cannot recall those who are taken from 
us. While they yet live, we bend over them 
with a breathless solicitude. We watch each 
varying symptom with feverish anxiety. We 
eagerly cling to the last feeble remains of 
hope. We fast, and pray, and weep, for 
who can tell, our fond hearts urge, whether 
God will yet be gracious ; whether he will 
yet save. But it is too late. The last agony 
is over ; the bitterness of death is past ; the 
spirit has returned to him who gave it. 
Wherefore, then, should we weep ? Can 
we bring lost ones back again ? Should we 
wish to recall them if we could 1 Should we 
wish to take them from their heavenly re- 
ward, to restore them to earth, again to 
sufFer, to weep, to renew their conflict with 
the world and with sin, and to undergo, 
afresh, the pangs of separation ? We shall 
go to them, but they shall not return to us. 
They have but crossed the flood a few days 
before us. We shall soon embark, and if 
we have been faithful and obedient, we shall 
go where our mutual knowledge will be re- 
newed, and our earthly friendships revived, 
never more to be interrupted. Why then 
weep for the dead, who have but dropped 



their mortal habiliments, and have put on 
immortality ? 

But they were early, it may be, summon- 
ed away. Their death, we think, was un- 
timely, and therefore we grieve. We can 
bear to see the old pass away. — The la- 
bours and enjoyments of life are ended ; 
their course is finished ; their race is run. 
It is fit that they should enter on their rest, 
and reward. It is fit they should receive 
the crown of immortality. Their days are 
full, and they are gathered in, in their sea- 
son. The remnant of life, were they spared, 
would be only bitterness, for their strength 
is labour and sorrow. They sink on the 
couch of death, and we feel that it would 
be wrong to mourn. 

But when the young die, the natural order 
of things seems reversed; our expectations 
are disappointed, and our feelings, in some 
sense, shocked. It is like the perishing of 
the buds and blossoms of spring, by which 
the hopes of the year are destroyed. Their 
days of usefulness, it may be, were but just 
commencing. They were just beginning 
to exert their capacities with success ; their 
powers were not yet fully unfolded ; they 
had not reached their full maturity and 
strength, when death intervened, and all 



34 



their opportunities, and projects, all the 
hopes which were centered in them, were 
suddenly ended. Hence, sorrow fills the 
heart; hence, dejection and anguish. They 
are untimely gone ; gone in the freshness 
and promise of life's morning. Hence, 
these tears. 

There are considerations, however, which 
may serve to alleviate affliction occasioned 
by the death of the young. True, their hope 
of usefulness is blighted by early death; they 
are taken from the labours, the honours and 
enjoyments of life. — But we should reflect 
that they are also taken from its sufferings, 
its trials, its sorrows. As regards them- 
selves, their removal may be a blessing; we 
should trust that it is so. What is human 
life ? Too often a scene of feverish anxiety, 
of disappointment and anguish, a vanity, a 
sorrow. In how many forms may our peace 
and happiness be assailed! How many are 
bowed down by sickness and misfortune ! 
How many consume their days and nights 
in wretchedness ; the victims of neglect, 
unkindness, and errors in others ! The 
young may be recalled, that they may be 
spared the sufferings, and trials of earth. 
They may be taken from the evil to come. 
They have obtained their release, they have 



35 



gone to their rest, ere sorrow had blighted 
their spirits. The tomb is a refuge into 
which care and grief can never intrude. 
There anguish cannot more rend the heart ; 
1 no doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.' 
We would retain them, but God, who dis- 
cerns the future, to us a dark abyss, has 
better things in reserve for them. He 
assigns them, in mercy, a short journey 
through the rough paths of earth, and takes 
them early to heavenly joys. Why then 
mourn for them as though some great evil 
had fallen on them 1 What we deem their 
calamity is, in fact, their greatest felicity. 

Again, we should reflect that life has not 
only its sorrows, but its temptations. It is 
a state of constant warfare with sin. We 
maintain an incessant conflict with inward 
and outward foes; and who can promise 
himself that he shall overcome 1 Who can 
answer for his own heart to the end 1 A 
thousand avenues conduct to the broad road 
of sin, and 6 easy is the descent,' but the 
way to life is rugged, and the path narrow. 
Those, early summoned, are taken from a 
field of danger, of toil, and wretchedness. 
Their character is now sealed ; they are 
safe. Our apprehensions and solicitude for 
them are now past. Their spirits cannot 



36 



now be dishonoured by sin. If they have 
been faithful, and according to their ability 
and strength, cultivated the christian affec- 
tions, we have a right to regard them as 
transported to a seat in the paradise of God. 
They have gone to the Father ; to the Fa- 
ther of Jesus and of us; to Ins God and ours. 
Why mourn their translation 1 Why in- 
dulge the selfishness of grief 1 

A. L. 



£f)e Be^Siruoti of t|)e Turtuous ui a State of 
SSapjrfness after 3Beatj). 

Father, I will, that they also whom thou hast given me, be with 
me where I am. 

It is not from any vague or doubtful infer- 
ences, that the christian derives his belief of 
a future world. His faith is more direct and 
steadfast. Christ has risen from the dead, 
and become the first fruits of them that slept. 
The resurrection of our Lord, who was made 
in all things like unto his brethren, is an ar- 
gument for man's immortality which, at the 
same time that it is more convincing than 
any which philosophy has urged, is so plain, 



37 



that its force is immediately acknowledged 
by the humblest understanding. 

My object at present, however, is not to 
consider the proofs of a future existence, 
but assuming the truth of the doctrine, as 
revealed in the gospel, to ascertain how far 
it may encourage us in a belief of a re-union 
with our departed friends in heaven. It is 
an enquiry of the deepest interest. The 
hopes and fears which it involves, are among 
the most powerful, which can animate or 
distress the human bosom. The consola- 
tions, that it may afford, are among the 
highest and dearest, which can be brought 
to affliction, when she sits in the dust and 
weeps for those who are not. Let us then 
enquire whether, after death, we shall, or 
shall not be forever united with each other. 

Some, who perhaps have not duly consid- 
ered this question, place it among those 
merely speculative ones, on which we can 
never hope, in this world, to obtain any sat- 
isfaction. Such are the questions: — Where 
is heaven to be 1 What will be the occupa- 
tions there ? What kind of bodies shall we 
have, precisely 1 On these particulars we 
may form our several theories, if we please, 
but there exist no real grounds for satisfac- 
tory conclusions. We must remain in igno- 
5 



38 



ranee ; and it is of no great consequence 
that we should be informed. But the ques* 
tion, whether we shall rejoin and recognize 
hereafter those, whom we knew and loved in 
this world, is of quite another character, of 
more interest and importance than those 
others, and admitting of a more easy and 
reasonable solution. 

1. In support of this opinion, I will ob- 
serve, in the first place, that the resurrec- 
tion, which is revealed in the gospel, is a 
resurrection of individuals, as individuals ; 
of each person in his distinct personality. 
Few will maintain that comfortless system 
of antiquity, which teaches that the human 
soul is to be absorbed, after the death of 
the body, into the spirit of the universe. 
What satisfaction can it give us to know, 
that we shall not be entirely lost in the great 
creation, if we are also to know, that we 
must resign all separate perceptions and 
pleasures, and never must think, feel or en- 
joy, as distinct existences ? 

It will be granted, therefore, that it is by 
no means a presumptuous or unwarranted, 
but a very simple thing to say, that we shall 
live hereafter as separate and distinct indi- 
viduals, as truly so as we exist in the pres- 
ent life. And yet from this unpretending 



39 



and almost self-evident postulate, we may 
clearly deduce the doctrine, which some 
please to call a speculative one, of the re- 
union and recognition of friends in a future 
state. 

If it is evident, that we are to exist as 
distinct individuals, it is equally evident, that 
we must know ourselves to be the same indi- 
viduals, who existed here. For if we are 
not to be made certain of that, a resurrec- 
tion will be equivalent to another creation ; 
to the formation of a race of beings with 
whom we, who now live on the earth, can 
have nothing to do. That the belief of a 
future state may exert the least influence 
over our conduct, it is necessary that we 
should also believe, that we shall be able to 
identify ourselves then, with ourselves as we 
are now ; otherwise our belief will furnish 
no motive to virtue, nor any consolation in 
adversity. 

It is further evident, that if we are to be 
conscious of our identity with our former 
selves, we must be conscious of the acts of 
our former existence ; especially if we re- 
gard the future state, as a state of retribu- 
tion. For it is impossible to conceive, how 
we can be the subjects of reward or punish- 
ment, without being sensible of what we 



40 



had done or omitted on earth, to render us 
deserving of either. But, if we are to be 
conscious of the acts of our former exist- 
ence, if we are to remember our conduct 
while we were on the earth, we must like- 
wise remember those among whom we had 
our conversation, those who, in a great mea- 
sure, made our conduct what it was. Our 
duties, virtues, faults, sins and vices, arise 
almost altogether from the relations of soci- 
ety. We cannot remember the one, with- 
out calling to mind the other. They are 
inseparably united, and the imagination can- 
not disjoin them. If I should remember 
that I had done a particular injury on earth, 
I must remember him whom I injured ; if I 
should remember that I had performed a 
particular act of benevolence, I must re- 
member the person whom I assisted. How 
much more should I remember, in the re- 
view of my life, those with whom I had been 
connected in the daily and most intimate 
intercourse of life ; those who had exercised 
the most efficacious influences in the forma- 
tion of my character ; those who had called 
forth, and gained, and kept the best affec- 
tions of my heart. The recollection of my 
former self and my former associates, must 
be produced together, and from the same 



41 



principle. If the one is evident, the other is 
so too. 

We have now a direct inference of the 
mutual recollection of friends in a future 
state, from the christian doctrine of the re- 
surrection of each individual to a distinct 
existence. And so well am I satisfied, that 
the inference is rational and sound, that I 
could hardly tell which of the two doctrines 
I most firmly believed. 

But the recollection of our friends, and a 
re-union with them, are not one and the 
same thing. There is still another step to 
be taken, from the one to the other. We 
may recollect our friends, and yet not be 
permitted to recognize or rejoin them. But 
is this probable ? Can we for a moment 
suppose it ? Will God disappoint our most 
cherished expectations 1 Will he condemn 
us to preserve in our memory the shadows 
of those we loved, while he denies to us 
their society and sympathy 1 Are we not 
only doomed to endure the pangs of sepa- 
ration from them here, but to know in the 
future world, that when we left them here, 
we lost them forever 1 The supposition is 
inconsistent with the goodness of our Crea- 
tor, and should be dismissed as such. W^e 
shall not only remember, but rejoin, in the 
5* 



42 



heavenly world, the friends from whom we 
had been transiently separated by death. 

2. There is another course, yet more di- 
rect, if possible, than the above, which will 
bring us to the same conclusion. It involves 
no subtleties or minute discussions, and con- 
sists in the answer to as simple a question as 
could well be asked. The question is this. 
Are we, or are we not, in the world above, to 
live alone 1 Are we, or are we not, to lead, 
after death, an eternity of solitude 1 This is 
the only alternative. Each soul, in its glorifi- 
ed state, must either have a range entirely to 
itself, which shall never approach the sphere 
of any other soul, or it must associate with 
its kindred. It must exist in solitude, or in 
society. Let any one put this plain ques- 
tion to himself, and he cannot hesitate in 
giving his answer. He will perceive, that it 
is contrary to sound reason, to imagine an 
eternal life of loneliness ; and he will decide 
that the life of the blessed must be a life of 
society. And what society can it be, but 
that of friends ? By whom shall we be sur- 
rounded, but by our friends ? With whom 
shall we live, if not with our friends ? What 
beings will be more likely to partake with us 
the joys of heaven, than those who shared 
with us the joys and the sorrows of earth ? 



43 



What souls will be so probably associated 
with our own, as those to which our own 
had been endeared and assimilated by edu- 
cation, habit, intercourse and time ? Among 
the innumerable hosts of heaven, shall we 
be denied the sight of those, whom, of all 
others, we most wished to see ? In the vast 
assembly of spirits, shall we search in vain 
for those whom we seek most eagerly 1 Will 
the only blank in creation, be that which we 
are the most desirous to fill 1 Will the only 
wounds, which are left unhealed, be those 
which death had inflicted, and which we 
hoped that immortality would cure 1 — Our 
feelings, our reason, our common sense, will 
at once reply, that it cannot be so. 

These rational conclusions will not be dis- 
turbed, but, on the contrary, confirmed by 
scripture. Though it does not declare di- 
rectly and fully, that we shall know one 
another in a future state, it yet often implies 
that we shall, and never intimates that we 
shall not. Some of the passages which con- 
tain this presumptive evidence, I will now 
bring together. 

At the close of the earnest and affection- 
ate intercession, which, just before his cruci- 
fixion, Christ offered up for his disciples, he 
introduces the following petition. ' Father, 



44 



I will, that they also, whom thou hast given 
me, be with me, where I am ; that they may 
behold my glory which thou hast given me.' 
It is apparent from these words, that our 
Saviour expected to meet, in the glorious 
state which was to be the reward of his 
obedience and sufferings, both those who 
were then his disciples, and all who should 
become so afterwards. For in the address 
to his disciples, which precedes his prayer 
for them, he expresses himself quite as 
strongly. 'In my Father's house are many 
mansions ; if it were not so I would have 
told you. I go to prepare a place for you. 
And if I go and prepare a place for you, I 
will come again, and receive you unto my- 
self ; that where I am, there ye may be also.' 
These words appear to me to be explicit ; 
and we have only to take a short, an easy, 
I may say an unavoidable step, from the 
fact that the disciples of Christ are to be 
with him and one another, to arrive at the 
conclusion, that they will know him and one 
another. We may gather the same mean- 
ing, and form the same conclusion from the 
following words of St Paul, in his second 
epistle to the Corinthians. 4 Knowing that 
he who raised up the Lord Jesus, shall raise 



45 



up us also by Jesus, and shall present us 
with you.' 

I would add, that heaven is never spoken 
of as a solitary, but often as a social place 
of existence. It is designated by words 
which imply society, and intercourse, and 
mutual knowledge — such, for instance, as 
a city, a kingdom, a church, an assembly. 
We meet with an extraordinary number of 
these words, in a short and continuous pas- 
sage of the epistle to the Hebrews, xii, 22. 
' But ye are come unto Mount Sion, and 
unto the city of the living God, the heavenly 
Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company 
of angels, to the general assembly and church 
of the first born, which are written in hea- 
ven, and to God the judge of all, and to the 
spirits of just men made perfect.' 

Passages and expressions similar to these, 
we shall often find in the holy volume. The 
least that can be said of them, is, that they 
countenance an opinion which is prompted 
by affection, and confirmed by reason. To 
my mind, they complete the proof of a re- 
cognition and re-union of friends in the fu- 
ture state. 

In endeavouring to maintain this belief, I 
cannot perceive that I have wandered into 
the region of mere speculation. It has been 



46 



my object to make it appear a reasonable 
doctrine. For as reasonableness is a quali- 
ty, which, as far as I can judge of it, I nev- 
er fail to require for every article of my own 
creed, so it is a rule by which I desire to 
see every opinion examined and adopted, or 
rejected by others. 

After discussing the grounds of the doc- 
trine, we are at liberty to speak of its mor- 
al effects. No one will deny that these are 
of great importance. Its consolations are 
abundant. Like an angel of mercy, it has- 
tens to the house which the angel of death 
has overshadowed ; wipes away the tears of 
its inmates, before time can arrive with its 
tardy comfort ; and gives peace to the bo- 
som, when philosophy and stoicism have 
done their utmost in forcing composure on 
the features. It tells us, that those who were 
not permitted to accompany us to the end of 
our earthly journey, have only been taken 
before us to their resting place, where we 
shall soon rejoin them. It will teach us to 
look on dissolution as only a longer or short- 
er term of temporary absence from those 
who have made life pleasant to us ; as a sus- 
pension merely, of those friendships and in- 
timacies, which have afforded us the best 
part of what we have known as happiness ; 



47 



and we shall wait with a holy patience for a 
renewal of them, where they will never again 
be interrupted nor broken. 

The influence of such a belief on the af- 
fections will naturally be extended to the 
conduct. It must be a purifying, as well as 
a consolatory faith. The conviction that we 
shall meet our righteous friends in heaven, 
in the holy dwelling place of God, if our 
own characters are such as will admit us to 
their company, will naturally make us anx- 
ious to amend and improve our lives, and 
separate ourselves from all defilement. We 
may expect that our union will then be im- 
mediate. But obstinate sin, we have every 
reason to believe, will prove a dreary ban- 
ishment from the abodes of bliss, and from 
those who inhabit them. And it is my be- 
lief that this separation of the wicked from 
the good, will be one of the punishments of 
the former 5 and one of the inducements, by 
which they will be moved to seek the for- 
feited favour of the Almighty, and a resto- 
ration to those friends, from whom their evil 
deeds had estranged them. 

I would observe, in closing, that there are 
those on the earth, whose days God has been 
pleased to prolong, till they have survived 
all that blessed their eyes or satisfied their 



affections, and till they have seen the dear- 
est objects of their love fade away and fall 
around them, 'like leaves in wintry weath- 
er.' To such, the doctrine of a speedy re- 
union must be something more than conso- 
latory. It will prepare them to throw off 
life as an old and useless garment, and in- 
vite death as a redeeming friend. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving love endears ; 
If there the cherished heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! . 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth, and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

F. W. P. G. 



(tfyxinVs Heaacs to fns IBtsctples* 

Peace I leave with you My peace I give unto you. 

A calm and sacred peacefulness of mind 
is given to the devout and consistent chris- 
tian, such as no worldly power can impart, 
and which no worldly power can destroy. 
Unlike the flashes of joy, which kindle the 
countenance, and send the electric sparks of 
an excited spirit through the circles of the 



49 



frivolous and gay, it is a peacefulness, which 
dwells not on the surface, but an inward 
light — it burns clearly and brightly in the 
sanctuary of the soul. It is quenched not, 
dimmed not by the vicissitudes of life, and 
even when all earthly prospects are dark- 
ened, and all earthly hopes destroyed, it 
points steadily to a bright and quiet, and far- 
off spot, fast by the throne of God, where 
the weary will be at rest. 

The christian derives peace from the con- 
viction, that the events of life are ordered 
by a Providence, which though it inflict par- 
tial and temporary suffering, is administered 
for universal and eternal good. He knows 
that nothing is too great to be above the care 
of his heavenly Father ; nothing too small 
to be below it. He is assured, that the gra- 
cious Being, who regards with compassion 
the sparrow that falls silently to the ground, 
and clothes the smallest field-flower with 
beauty and fragrance, while he wheels the 
planets in their orbits, and restrains the sun 
in his place of light, will never forget the 
humblest individual, whom he has created in 
his own image and destined to immortality. 
He feels, that the darkest events of Provi- 
dence are appointed in love, and that the 
benevolent Father, who pities his children, 
6 



50 



and knows that they are dust, sends no sor- 
row without a kind design. 

This is, indeed, a hard lesson to learn. It 
is taught thoroughly in the school of Christ 
alone, that the discipline of suffering is as 
truly a part of the order of Providence, and 
as strong a proof of the love of God, as the 
blessings of prosperity. You may acknow- 
ledge the benevolence of the Deity and be 
able to feel it, in the loveliness of a sum- 
mer's landscape, where the blue heavens and 
the bright waters and the green earth are 
mingled in a common expression of beauty, 
and the magnificent drapery of nature is all 
unfolded by a divine hand ; but do you not 
know, that the blighting frosts and chilling 
snows, the gloom and desolation of winter, 
are appointed by the same Almighty author, 
and that He, who causes the gentle showers 
which refresh the thirsty earth, rides forth 
in the whirlwind and directs the tempest 1 
Does He send the one in love, and the other 
in anger 1 Is not the God of the summer 
and the God of the winter, the same 1 Are 
not his tender mercies over all his works ? 
Do you not see him in the red lightning and 
the angry storm, as well as in the blue sky 
and tranquil heavens? Does the long re- 
sounding thunder which inflicts evil upon a 



51 



part for the benefit of the whole, speak less 
distinctly the praises of Jehovah, than the 
gentle music of the wind, as it dies peace- 
fully away over the echoing hills ? 

And as natural evil and natural good are 
thus blended in just proportion for the bene- 
fit of man, the christian perceives, that the 
trials of life and the blessings of life are 
from the same wise Providence, and that 
adversity has its sweet and sacred uses as 
well as prosperity. In sickness as well as in 
health ; in sorrow as well as in joy ; in the 
event which prostrates his hopes as well as 
in that which elevates them, he recognises 
the will of the same God. What ! he devout- 
ly exclaims, what ! shall I receive good at the 
hand of the Lord, and shall I not also re- 
ceive evil ? The Lord gave, the same Lord 
hath taken away : blessed be the name of 
the Lord. Blessed, when he gives, and when 
he takes away. 

The christian, moreover, derives peace 
from the assurance, that as all the allotments 
of Providence come from a Father, and are 
sent in love, so they may all contribute to 
the ultimate welfare of his soul. The gos- 
pel teaches us not only that it is good for us 
to be afflicted, but it explains how it is good 
for us to be afflicted. It informs us, that 



52 



the great object of life is the cultivation of 
our moral being. It informs us, that though 
outward blessings are taken from us, if the 
inward virtues are increased, our highest 
good is not injured, but on the contrary aug- 
mented. Now we know, by our observation 
of the human mind, that certain traits of 
character are not fully developed in the 
sunshine of prosperity, but are nurtured and 
flourish, and grow up, amid the storms of 
adversity. Many a beautiful plant is brought 
to perfection, many a precious fruit is ripen- 
ed, not so much by the hot sun of noon, as 
by the refreshing moisture of midnight. So, 
many a beautiful and precious virtue of the 
soul is best cherished in silence and solitude, 
when all things bright and fair have vanish- 
ed, and darkness broods around. 

There is, thus, in the eternal plan of Provi- 
dence, a principle of compensation, by which 
sorrow is turned into joy, and present trou- 
bles produce lasting benefits. The light afflic- 
tion, which is but for a moment, works out 
for the subdued and improved sufferer a far 
more exceeding and an eternal weight of 
glory. No matter in what form the trial 
comes ; no matter, what stern disguise it 
may assume, it is sent for the best good of 
man. It is borne from the throne of the 



53 



Almighty, not by a demon of wrath, but by 
an angel of mercy. The cup of trembling 
which he presents, though it contain the 
waters of bitterness, is filled from the foun- 
tain of life. 

In feelings and hopes like these, does the 
christian find peace. Thus is fulfilled that 
blessed promise of our Lord, ' Peace I leave 
with you. My peace I give unto you.' 

G. R. 



6* 



' • For what was call'd 

Affliction, brought an evidence of love. 

It came disguis'd in Sorrow's livery, 

But it threw off her borrow'd garb, and lo ! 

The white rob'd Angel of celestial love 

With her sweet influence was there. She still'd 

His troubled thoughts, open'd his blinded heart, 

And led him out beyond the changing earth., 

And pointed up to the eternal mind, 

That taketh knowledge of a sparrow's fall, 

And lights a world with glory ; that will hear 

A sigh's low music 'mid the swelling praise, 

Which rushes upward from a thousand realms. 



Light came from darkness, gladness from despair 

As, when the sun-light fadeth from the earth, 

Star after star comes out upon the sky, 

And shining worlds, that had not been reveal'd, 

In days lull light, are then made manifest. 

'Twas so with him. — The light of earth shut out, 

His thoughts turn'd inward, and discover'd there 

Things of immortal wonder, living springs 

Of an unfailing comfort ; hidden things, 

Brighter than earth's allurements. He could trace 

The operations of the immortal mind, 

On its high path to excellence and joy, 

And see the prize of its high calling there. 



jFragments. 



She too, the fair young creature by my side, 

All gay with hope, all buoyant with delight ; 

Will aught of evil leave its traces there ? 

That voice, which breathes such music to the ear ; 

Oh, will it lose the rapture of its song ? 

Flower of life's desert ! Must a shade too fall 

On the young freshness of thy op'ning morn ? 

Oh ! if a prayer can win the ear of Heav'n, 

By the soul's strength that sends it, this shall be heard, — 

That never grief may cloud that radiant brow, 

Or send a tear, where smiles are resting now. 



Why should such thoughts come o'er me ? Why, 

When all is bright and happy, should a gloom 

Be spread around us ? Oh ! blind and thoughtless soul ! 

'Tis the same pow'r that reigns, and the same love. 

Is trac'd alike, in sun-shine and in shade ; 

The cloud that bears the thunder in its fold3 

Comes on the errand of c good will to man.' 

Oh ! we should cling too close to earth, and love 

Too well its pleasures and delight, 

Were there no shadows on its scenes of light, 

No sorrow mingled with its cup of joy. 

If sweet fulfilment follow'd all our hopes, 

Like the unfoldings of a spring-flower bud, 

We should not seek a better world than this ; 

Where then would be the Teachings of the soul 

For higher pleasures, and those purer joys 

That have no otlrer dwelling-place but Heaven. 

M. 



Extract of a letter from **** **** * * * *, to a sister, after a 
severe bereavement. 

Jan. 10, 1830. 

My Dear C. 

I trust you have not ascribed it to any 
want of feeling or interest, that I have not 
said more to you in relation to that painful 
bereavement, which Providence has so mys- 
teriously appointed you. I cannot say what 
I would in words. Would to heaven, I had 
power to say any thing to assuage that grief, 
which with the highest principles and the 
noblest views, must be poignant indeed. 
The greatness of this trial no one can fully 
know, that has not tested it. But I know 
enough to awaken all my sympathy. It is a 
poor gift ; but if it will yield you any con- 
solation, you may draw largely from this 
source. 

But there are higher sources of consola- 
tion ; sources of whose freeness and fulness, 
we need not the assurance of man. On 
this subject man may well confess his ina- 



57 



bility to speak. He need not speak — for 
God and Jesus have spoken, and he can add 
nothing — we rejoice that he can take away 
nothing, from what is written on the sacred 
page. It has always seemed to me one of 
the highest beauties and blessings of our re- 
ligion, that it is so full of clear, unequivocal, 
delightful assurances for our support and so- 
lace in the loss of children. There is a 
mildness and clearness in its language on 
this subject. I mean the purity and conse- 
quent happiness of the departed child. And 
at the same time a certainty and power, 
which we do not find in other connexions, 
and which the heart must be dead to resist. 
Christianity appears to yearn towards the 
young with a mother's tenderness and love ; 
and when they are taken away, it seems but 
another visible scene of their Saviour taking 
them to his arms, blessing them, and saying 
— 4 Of such is my kingdom,' 'forbid them 
not to come to me.' And after the first ir- 
repressible burst of sorrow, why can we not 
as truly rejoice that they are taken to those 
arms, and that kingdom in heaven, as we 
should have rejoiced to have seen them thus 
embraced and blessed on earth ? They are 
of a higher kingdom. They belong to a 
purer realm. And is it wrong in us, or is it 



58 



nothing, to find consolation in the thought 
that we have contributed to the purity and 
joy of that realm, by relinquishing a portion 
of our own present happiness ? Can we 
refuse, can we hesitate for a moment, to 
press the uncertain, and at best, very tran- 
sient gratification of a life prolonged to us, 
when we know that by this sacrifice we pur- 
chase for the little loved one, a deliverance 
from all possible evil, and a sure admission 
to eternal bliss ? 

In all common cases of affliction, there is, 
there must be, consolation flowing in upon 
every good mind, from such thoughts as 
these. And, I ask, is this consolation less, 
less abundant or less sure, because your's is 
not a common case ? Will you permit the 
peculiar circumstances of your trial to weigh 
upon your spirit, and prevent you from de- 
riving that support aud solace which you 
would otherwise obtain ? In my view, the 
very peculiarities of your case, while they 
must for the time aggravate your distress, 
when rightly considered, may and will have 
the opposite effect. For they are most plain- 
ly the direct appointment of God. There 
is a providence in them, above our knowl- 
edge and control. They point us strongly 
to the irresistible power, the absolute do- 



59 



minion of God over his creatures. They 
make us feel what we are apt only to say, 
that we are not our own, but His, our bo- 
dies and our spirits, ourselves and our chil- 
dren, our all : and they teach us how wretch- 
ed and helpless would be our condition, if it 
were not so. In a word, such events force 
upon us the whole and great truth of our de- 
pendance and our nearness to God ; and 
make us see that it is not only the dictate of 
religion, but the part of wisdom, to yield 
every thing to him. — -'Do with us what 
seemeth to thee good.' H. 



Extract from a letter written by a father to his daughter, while 
she was absent on a journey, after the death of a lovely boy. 

Aug. 28. 

My Dear Child, 

I received, last evening, your husband's 
letter of the 23d instant, and was glad you 
had got thus far on your journey ; and that 
your trouble on your way was less than you 
expected. My fond wishes attend you, that 
all the evils of life may thus disappoint you, 
as I am sure our happiness in the next, if 
we conduct well in this, will exceed our 
most unbounded expectations. 



60 



Though these small occurrences gave me 
pleasure, it would have been very greatly 
increased, had he informed me your spirits 
revived, and the beauties of nature had call- 
ed forth a more cheerful enjoyment of the 
sweets that surround you. I did hope, and 
I yet hope they will have that happy effect 
before you return, or I should not have ad- 
vised to the jaunt, but should rather have 
wished you to stay at home, that I might 
have mourned with you the separation of the 
moment, not the loss, of your darling boy. 
I know the luxury of woe has many charms 
for the feeling mind, and I believe when it 
is enjoyed in reason, it seems to soften and 
compose. The luxuries of life, if only now 
and then enjoyed, are undoubtedly desir- 
able, and perhaps innocent ; but when in- 
dulged intemperately, we all know the plea- 
sure soon cloys, and the most fatal conse- 
quences ensue. So the superior luxury, 
which proceeds from virtuous grief, when 
separated by the grave from those we love, 
if indulged to excess, preys upon the spirits, 
destroys our usefulness in life, undermines 
the vital principle, and conveys us to the 
grave, to rest with our friends there. But 
this entirely frustrates the designs of a mer- 
ciful God, who sends afflictions, that we may 



61 

know how to conduct in life, not to force us 
out of it ; that we may see the insufficiency 
of every thing here below, to produce real 
happiness, and to wean us from sublunary 
things ; that we may be prepared for that 
substantial happiness, which awaits the vir- 
tuous in a better world. And to desert our 
post because difficulties attend us ; and to 
refuse the comforts offered us on our jour- 
ney, because they are not equal to the ele- 
gancies we have at home, would be con- 
demned by every thinking person. It is ea- 
sier to advise than to practise ; but I never- 
theless, do not expect you will retort upon 
me. My judgment tells me it is right, to 
submit implicitly to whatever our Almighty 
friend sees fit to bring upon us in life. He 
is our friend, and most assuredly orders the 
occurrences of our life for our best good ; and 
although now we see it not, yet at the last it 
j will most fully appear. If, therefore, we 
cannot now see, let us learn to believe and 
trust. Trust whom ? Not an Almighty, in- 
flexible Being, who from eternity appoints his 
creatures to misery. Such a Being, all might 
fear, but none could love ! No ; a Being, 
whose goodness is every where display- 
ed ; ' who willeth not the death of a sinner,' 
nor unnecessary distress to any of his crea- 
7 



62 



tures, for his tender mercies are over all his 
works. The lovely babe we deplore, has, 
by submitting to death, paid all that was 
demanded for the transgression of our first 
parents, and having none of his own to ac- 
count for, was, through the mercy of our Sa- 
viour, received to a share in his glory, and 
is now singing hosannas with our blessed 
friends in heaven. 

I hope you will not disappoint my ex- 
pectations ; that you will recall that cheer- 
ful deportment, which rendered you agree- 
able to all your friends. Remember you 
have a tender husband, who justly loves 
you, and mourns with you; a darling child 
still remaining ; a father, much of whose 
hope of comfort in life leans upon you ; and 
many friends, who esteem, and love, and 
draw much of their comfort from you. 
These, to whose happiness you can so es- 
sentially contribute, demand your attention. 
But to the cherub, if your indulgence of grief 
can have any effect, it must be to lessen his 
happiness ! And if to give, is more blessed 
than to receive, it certainly is more bless- 
ed to give, than to take away from the hap- 
piness of any one. 

The power of benevolence you have not 
lost ; and there are more avenues from that 



63 



source than the bare bestowment of money. 
To give comfort and happiness to your 
friends and connexions, by enjoying it your- 
self, may justly be placed to that account. 
I entreat you, therefore, to exert yourself, 
and disappoint me not in this my wish, and 
just expectation. I could write a volume, 
were it necessary, on the excellent lesson 
conveyed in the beautiful fable of the Her- 
mit, but you know it already; and if you 
have not before, I hope you will now in- 
dulge reflections on it something like those ; 
for they will serve to reconcile you to the 
doings of that God who cannot do wrong. 
Remember, to enjoy is to obey ; but to re- 
ject the blessings offered may be the means 
of their being withheld. And although those 
justly beloved comforts may be hidden from 
us for a moment, if we submit without re- 
pining, and enjoy those that remain with 
gratitude to the benevolent Giver, the time 
will come when they shall be brought again 
to our view and society, beautified as angels, 
and the enjoyment of them shall be durable 
as eternity. 

I have to inform you of the death of pro- 
fessor T**** # , which took place yesterday 
morning. He was a worthy man, and is 
now gone to receive his reward. I expect 



64 



you will write me soon, yourself; and let 
me see, by the contents, that though the 
mother and the friend may feel, yet the 
christian can suffer with resignation, forti- 
tude and hope ; and that your aspirations 
after heaven, and the desire of possessing 
it, are increased by every deprivation you 
are called to suffer on earth ; knowing they 
are appointed by your father in heaven, who 
loves you more than your truly affectionate 
father on earth. J. B # *****. 



LETTERS OF A PASTOR. 

The following letters, or notes, were addressed by Rev. Wil- 
liam Emerson, of the First Church in Boston, to esteemed 
friends and parishioners, whose repeated bereavements, par- 
ticularly of promising children, had awakened his pastoral sym- 
pathies. That of April, 1811, from Portland, will be read with 
interest, as having been written during his own sickness, while 
absent from his family and flock, within a few weeks of his 
death, and as the last letter he ever wrote. F. P. 

August, 1803. 

My Dear Friends, 

I intended to have called on you immedi- 
ately upon hearing of your great affliction, 
but was prevented by indispensable business. 
But were I constantly with you, I could only 
commend you to that great and good being, 
who made all that lives, and, without whose 



65 



knowledge not a sparrow dies. Your dear 
babe is of more value than many sparrows. 
Put your trust in God. What you suffer is 
known to him, and was designed by him for 
your good. Your situation has my sympa- 
thies and prayers. You know your duties, 
and, I think do not want a disposition to 
perform them. See then that you fulfil the 
duties of meditation, prayer, faith, and re- 
signation. You are habitually tried in the 
school of prosperity ; it is right that you 
should sometimes be tried in that of adver- 
sity. Prove, my dear friends, that you have 
not in vain learned Christ. Show that the 
principles and maxims of his religion are 
able to sustain the heart in moments of the 
keenest anguish, and to make you rejoice 
even in tribulation. 

I am sincerely yours, 

W. EMERSON. 



7* 



66 



Portland, April 19, 1811. 
My Dear Friends, 

As I have only a little strength, I must 
endeavour to use it to the best advantage ; 
that is to say, I shall try, that my letters 
shall at once answer the purpose of informa- 
tion to my family, and, if possible, shed a 
ray of solace on the heart of affliction. Af- 
ter having read this line therefore, do me 
the favour to send it for perusal to Mrs E. 

Scarcely any instance of mortality has 
for some time occurred in my society, which 
has interested my feelings like the decease 
of your lovely infant. The fact of its be- 
ing co-eval with a child of my own ; its 
healthful and promising aspect ; an idea 
that you had tasted your share of the worm- 
wood and the gall ; and a strong desire that 
those who possess so liberally the means of 
education, should have the opportunity of 
wielding them successfully, were circum- 
stances which, as they crossed my mind, 
seemed to augur favourably for the life of the 
child. But God has differently decreed. 
And his decrees are ever the result of infi- 
nite wisdom and benevolence. If I were to 



67 



write ever so long, I could say no more. A 
clear and strong conviction, that the good 
Governor of the world eternally lives and 
reigns ; that our afflictions and mercies are 
dispensed by his love, and are designed to 
bring us to our heavenly home, is sufficient to 
inspire us with resignation. Let the thought 
be adequate to the calming of your sorrows. 
This truth has been your support in times 
of former trouble ; let it assuage your pres- 
ent grief. God is still where he was ; ana 
his promise and arm have not the less effica- 
cy for being the objects of reliance. What 
I recommend to you, my excellent friends, 
may I be enabled to practise myself. Rely 
on it, I shall make the effort. But to what 
a trial I am called ! I see the prospect of 
being taken away in the midst of my days. 
It seems as if I heard a voice from hence, 
saying, 6 Give up thy account, for thou may- 
est be no longer steward.' Whilst it is ne- 
cessarily the knell of terror and sadness to 
my terrestrial hopes, it brings no dismay to 
my celestial expectations. I cannot think 
that he, who has been the God of my life 
hitherto ; who has fed, protected, educated, 
blessed me ; who has spread out to my view 
such an ample and beautiful world ; and af- 
forded me on earth such a pleasant lot, and 



68 



so much happiness, so many worthy friends, 
and such delightful contemplations, is going* 
to desert me on the brink of the grave. His 
omniscient hand will bring me thence. I feel 
revived by the assurance. It invigorates the 
currency of my pen, and imparts even a 
gleam of presumption, that all my powers 
of life have not wasted beyond the possibili- 
ty of a temporary restoration. Indeed, I am 
better to-day than I have been any day 
since I left home. The kindness of Bosto- 
nians pursues me hither, and, had I no oth- 
er friends, they, who are with me, make a 
world of tenderness themselves. Adieu ! 
May God bless you, and your surviving chil- 
dren, prays your friend and pastor, 

W. EMERSON. 



Letters from near friends to a friend and mother, after repeated 
bereavements of her children. 

W***********, Jan. 11, 1819. 
Soon again, my dear friend, you are call- 
ed to mourning. The loss of your son, so 
far advanced toward manhood, I well know 
must be very great. Most tenderly do I 
sympathise with you under this afflicting 
dispensation of divine Providence. 



69 



Most earnestly do I wish, I was able to 
say something to comfort you, something 
which might alleviate the anguish of your 
present sufferings. You are daily the sub- 
ject of my thoughts ; and in my most seri- 
ous hours you can never be forgotten. 

It is not in the power of human friend- 
ship to soothe the sorrows of an afflicted 
heart. But there is a Friend, an almighty, 
compassionate friend, who is able, and, in 
his good way, will heal the wounds he 
sees fit to inflict on his children, who put 
their trust in him. He will impart such di- 
vine consolations, such heavenly peace, and 
submission to his holy will, as shall ensure 
present comfort, and a foretaste of future 
felicity. And when our trials are past, when 
we have done with this vain world, we shall 
know for what reasons they were assigned 
to us. We shall see the wisdom and good- 
ness of a tender parent. This truth we now 
believe, and so far as we are enabled to re- 
alize it, and to yield obedience to the divine 
will, shall we reap the benefits and supports 
we so greatly need. These supports and 
consolations you enjoy, and I pray God to 
grant you, from time to time, strength to 
help in every time of need, and his favour and 
protection here and hereafter. For myself, 
I desire to hope in his goodness, and to 



70 



leave all with him, who rules in heaven and 
over all his works in infinite wisdom and 
mercy; whonever conceals himself from our 
prayers ; but compassionates the wants of 
every living creature, and always bestows 
such blessings on his own children, as he 
sees to be best for them. 



Jan. 26, 1819. 

It is indeed a long time, my friend, since 
I have been indebted to you for a truly wel- 
come favour, but I feel that our thoughts are 
frequently engaged on the same subject ; 
that our deeply wounded hearts look to the 
same source for forgiveness, light and con- 
solation ; that we have the same views, the 
same hopes, and the same blissful anticipa- 
tions of being re-united, in regions above, 
never more to part. 

Do we not both know and acknowledge, 
that our Heavenly Father afflicts his chil- 
dren, not merely to correct and humble 
them, but that they may manifest their love 
and faith, their entire acquiescence in his 
unerring will ; to improve their graces, and 
fit them for those pure and glorious man- 
sions, which are already prepared for the 
true disciples of his son, that where he is, 



71 



there they may be also. Oh ! may we never 
frustrate, by secret repinings, such gracious 
and merciful designs, but even rejoice under 
the darkest dispensations, that the Lord God 
omnipotent reigneth, and will do all his plea- 
sure, firmly realizing, as well as believing, 
that all things are directed for the ultimate 
good and happiness of the true and faithful 
believer. 

In such a world of shadows and tombs, it 
appears almost impossible to find any pecu- 
liarly afflicted. But, my dear friend, I some- 
times feel as if we had been. Yet we will 
gratefully allow, that we have had blessings 
mingled in our cup of sorrow, which we 
would not relinquish, for all the world calls 
happiness. Have not I strong reasons for 
indulging the blissful hope, that those be- 
loved objects, who so cheered and animated 
my earthly path, but who now are gone for- 
ever, have entered upon joys — never ending 
joys, that my finite mind cannot even com- 
prehend? As for you, my revered friend, 
what unmingled hopes were yours, when 
you committed the immortal souls of your 
precious infants into his hands, who hath 
declared, of such are the kingdom of heaven. 
May we not say of those departed treasures : 
* happy, highly favoured probationers, ac- 



72 



cepted without being exercised ! It was 
your privilege, not to feel the slightest of 
those evils, which oppress your surviving 
friends, which frequently excite groans from 
the most manly fortitude, and the most ele- 
vated faith.' The arrows of calamity, barb- 
ed with anguish, are often fixed deep in our 
choicest comforts ; the darts of temptation 
are always around us. To the sweet babes, 
these distresses and dangers were alike un- 
known. We will not then mourn as those 
without hope. And may our frail natures 
be strengthened, our erring hearts purified ; 
and we shall no longer grieve, that those we 
have loved on earth, have 1 begun the travel 
of eternity ' before us. 



W , May 27, 1819. 

Oh, my dear and most affectionate friend, 
how gladly would I pour the oil and wine of 
consolation into your afflicted bosom, but 
God can alone soothe and heal. To him 
may you be enabled to look, and may his 
almighty arm support you through life, and 
be your stay through the valley of the shad- 
ow of death. I know you are ready, in the 
bitterness of your soul, to say, ' Was ever 
sorrow like my sorrow.' Yes, my friend, 



73 



God has revealed in his gracious name to 
you, and taught 7011 where to go for help in 
every time of need, and you will not sink 
beneath the blow. Oh no ! the language of 
your heart will be : — 1 Though he slay me, 
yet will I trust in him.' My heart is with 
you, my dear friend, and I can truly say, 
that in all your afflictions I am afflicted. 
Your lovely children are not dead, they are 
only transplanted to a brighter world. Such 
loveliness has not bloomed in vain, its fra- 
grance has ascended to heaven to be shed in 
purer influence upon you. I have no doubt 
their sweet spirits are hovering about you, 
invoking blessings on you and their father. 
They long to say to you : — ' Oh that you 
could see this world, where all the souls of 
children come, and where we are preparing 
for greater joys.' You would not then weep, 
but would from the heart, say, 4 not my will, 
but thine be done.' 

I have lately found a description of a vir- 
tuous wife, in the eastern style, which I can- 
not forbear transcribing. If you have al- 
ready seen it, you will not regret seeing it 
again ; if it is new, you will read it with no 
common emotions. 

Whoever has gained a virtuous wife, pos- 
sesses a treasure of intrinsic worth, a prize 
8 



74 




of higher value than the most costly pearls. 
Such a treasure had Rabbi Meir, the great 
teacher, obtained. He sat on the Sabbath, 
in the synagogue instructing the people. In 
the mean time, death, who often aims his 
poisonous shafts against the most youthful 
breast, and spares the aged and infirm, did, 
by an unexpected stroke, deprive the parents 
of two goodly sons ; both were of handsome 
shape ; both by a father's care enlightened 
in the law. His partner looked at first on 
their bereavement with all the feelings of 
a tender mother ; but soon her piety shone 
predominant ; and in the duties of the wife 
each selfish wish was buried. Anxious to 
save her husband from those pangs, which a 
too sudden knowledge of his loss might 
raise, she moved the bodies of her sons into 
her chamber, laid them on her bed, and with 
white drapery concealed them. In the even- 
ing Rabbi Meir returned, and, with a father's 
proud solicitude enquired, 6 Where are my 
sons, that I may give to them the blessing?' 
4 They are gone into the synagogue,' replied 
his wife ; ' 1 looked around in expectation of 
their coming, but saw them not,' rejoined 
the Rabbi. 

She reached him a goblet with wine ; he 
praised the Lord at the ending of the Sab- 



75 



bath, and again asked, 4 Where are my sons, 
that they may also drink and partake of the 
blessing V 4 They are not far,' she said, 
and wishing to change the subject of his 
thoughts, with ready hand, prepared their 
evening meal. Of this he did partake, and 
after giving thanks, his wife thus spoke : — 
* Rabbi, permit me to ask your judgment in 
a cause, which much concerns me. A few 
years since, a person gave into my care some 
jewels. These I received with pleasure ; 
watched their safety with an anxious mind ; 
contemplated with pride their worth, and 
dared, at length, to view them as my own. — 
When, in an unexpected hour, a messenger 
is sent, who, in his master's name doth claim 
my valued charge. Shall I restore these 
gems to him V 4 My wife ought not first to 
enquire this,' said Rabbi Meir. 'Wilt thou 
delay returning each one which he hath lent 
thee? 5 4 Oh no,' answered she, 4 if it is 
unjust so to do ; but I would not return them 
without thy knowledge.' She then con* 
ducted him to the chamber, walked forward, 
and removed from the bodies their covering. 
4 Oh my sons! my sons!' cried the father, 
in the fulness of his grief, 4 do I find you 
thus ? I gave you life ; I enlightened your 
mental eyes in the law, and looked upon you 



76 



as the solace of my declining years, when on 
a sudden, I find myself bereft of you !' 

She turned from him, wishing to conceal 
the agitation of her mind ; but roused at 
length, by the violence of his grief, she seized 
him by the hand and spoke : — 6 Rabbi, hast 
thou not taught me, that it is contrary to the 
moral, as well as religious duties of men, 
to refuse restoring what is intrusted to their 
care ? Behold the Lord hath given, the 
Lord hath taken away : blessed be the name 
of the Lord.' 

'The name of the Lord be praised,' join- 
ed Rabbi Meir, conscious he had erred in 
repining at His will, who is infallible ; in 
murmuring at his mandate, who is omniscient. 

I trust, my dear friend, you have already 
learned this resignation, but you may be 
strengthened by such examples. And now 
I would commit you to the paternal care of 
Him, who ordereth all things in infinite wis- 
dom, and implore for you the guidance and 
assistance of his holy spirit, that you may 
endure unto the end, and be finally admitted 
into that world, ' where there is no sin, nor 
sorrow, nor separation ; and where all tears 
shall be wiped away;' and that you may 
there meet all those dear children and friends 
who are gone before you. 



77 



April 29th, 1819. 

My D^ar Friend, 

As you permit me to indulge the belief, 
that my letters afford you pleasure, I take 
an early opportunity to reply to your's. 
Your letters ever excite in my mind deep 
emotions of gratitude to the giver of all good, 
for granting me such a friend. I wish even 
more than ever, to be with you. And how 
fervently do I wish it was in my power to 
lessen the weight of sorrow that presses upon 
your bereaved heart. Would we at all times 
remember, that the purified spirits of those 
we love, are in the possession of an unutter- 
able happiness, surely we could not so utterly 
repine at our short separation from them. 
Short indeed will be the period, before we 
must go to them, though they can never re- 
turn to us. Truly, we are but pilgrims and 
sojourners here ; and there are moments 
when this truth is so forcibly presented to 
the mind ; when time appears so uncertain, 
so transient, that 4 resignation itself scarce 
seems a virtue.' How can we but be recon- 
ciled to events, that we know are directed 
in infinite wisdom and love 1 how can we 
but rejoice to be under the constant guidance 
and protection of that Almighty Being, 
8* 



78 



who will do all things well for those who 
love and trust him 2 

Let us, my friend, contemplate those be- 
loved objects, who have left this vale of tears 
a little before us, in those blissful regions 
above, where all tears are forever wiped 
away; their souls, purified from every stain, 
adorned with knowledge and virtue ; their 
stations, allotments, and employments, such 
as become those who are inhabitants of 
heaven ; their companions, cherubim and 
seraphim ; and their home, the house of 
their father, and their God. While we re- 
main in this shadowy world, may we, with 
unwavering faith, look unto him for strength, 
who is the same yesterday, to-day, and for- 
ever ; gratefully committing ourselves to his 
disposal, who, through all the discourage- 
ments of the present life, will give us peace, 
consolation, and joy. 

What an eternal heaven will dawn in the 
mind, when we shall be presented before the 
throne of Jehovah, and, with the beloved of 
our souls, secured in our immortal inherit- 
ance, and our final home, and behold all 
our sins washed away ; our trials ended ; 
our dangers escaped ; our sorrows left be- 
hind ; and our reward begun in that world 
where all things are ever new, ever delight- 
ful and divine. 



l^eftecttotts on ITfstttnjj tfje <£rabe of a @Stltr, 



In the spring of the last year, I attended 
the funeral of a child ; one, that I had often 
seen the parents gaze upon with an expres- 
sion of deep delight, and seemingly without 
the least consciousness that it was not an im- 
mortal thing. I could understand their hap- 
piness, but not their security ; for I had 
shared that calamity, from which life is not 
free, and with a heavy, but I trust, an hum- 
ble heart, had laid my treasure in the dust. 
I was prepared, therefore, to sympathize with 
them, 'tear for tear.' But, in truth, the 
heart most unacquainted with grief must 
have been moved at the sight of a child, 
beautiful as the morning star, called away 
from his parents' care and tenderness, and 
soon to lay his head on a colder pillow than 
his mother's breast. The scene was im- 
pressive, even awful; the stillness of the 
mansion which had rung with his laugh of 
gladness ; the parents wrapt in unuttera- 
ble woe ; the children gazing with wonder 



80 




and awe on the mystery of death ; and old 
men, each pondering as he leaned on his 
staff, why so lovely a form should be created 
only, as it seemed, to be dashed in pieces; all 
was silence, thoughtfulness and death. In 
the midst of them lay the child, once so ten- 
der and helpless, now insensible to all human 
affections ; his features bore that unsearch- 
able depth of expression, which no mortal 
eye could read; there was a smile on his 
lips, and a clear radiance on his brow, that 
made all who beheld it, feel the unapproach- 
able majesty of death. Soon the melancholy 
bell, the returning procession, and the tomb 
closing on its creaking hinges, told me that 
he had passed the boundary that separated 
the living from the dead. 

In the autumn, I happened to visit the 
burial-place. This is a favourite retreat of 
the thoughtful ; it has a solitude of its own, 
neither dreary nor oppressive ; a holy and 
gentle stillness, which is felt by every one 
that passes by. It was in a season of the 
day and year auspicious to such influences ; 
the red leaves were just beginning to with- 
er and fall ; the breathing of nature was 
like a universal sigh ; the evening clouds 
were hurrying to the west, to float once 



81 



v 



more in the sunset radiance; and all was 
still, as the decay that wears the marble of 
the tombs. The pale monuments rose around 
me, telling of the dead, not so much what 
they were, as what they ought to have been. 
But I was less moved by all their legends of 
vanity or affection, than by one small stone, 
which hardly rose above its bed of green. 
It was the memorial of that child who per- 
ished in the infancy and innocence of exist- 
ence ; leaving no more traces of himself 
among the living, than the cloud that wan- 
ders and melts away in the blue of heaven. 

I could not help meditating on the effect 
of time. At the time when the leaves, which 
I saw falling around me, were opening, this 
child was in the brightness of its rising. 
Now, it was gathered, ' dust to dust ;' then* 
it was taken from the living, and the parents 
refused all comfort, both of God and man. 
Now, most of those who shed tears for 
his early departure, had forgotten where 
they had laid him ; and the parents them- 
selves treasured his memory with far more 
tenderness than gloom. Had they not the 
same consolations then 1 Had any visible 
angel, since, said to them that he was not 
here, but had risen 1 Was not the sun of 
righteousness shining as brilliantly, then 5 



83 



upon the world as now 1 I felt, that time 
had done what religion then could not do : 
what religion might then have done, had it 
been intimate in the heart. For it was de- 
signed to remove the terrors of the grave ; 
and, instead of throwing ourselves open to 
the accidents and misfortunes of life, we 
should take the consolation God has offered, 
and bind it to our souls. We should not al- 
low ourselves to be entirely passive in the 
day of trial. We should exert all the en- 
ergy of our nature, touched and quickened 
by religion. If our hearts are strung to the 
trials of life, like the fine instrument, their 
tones will be inspiring ; but give them up to 
the influences of the world, and they are all 
sadness, like the harp of the winds, on which 
the passing breeze makes what melody it 
will. 

And yet it would seem, as if the anguish 
of sorrow was almost as deep, as if our reli- 
gion never had come. The tears flow as fast 
and freely, as they did two thousand years 
ago ; but then, immortality was like some 
star which shone, unregarded, in the heav- 
en. Now, its periods have been measured ; 
its vastness revealed ; and it has been made 
a guide to wanderers on the sea. Still, we 
regard the future with uneasiness and dread ; 



S3 



we set our affections on perishing things, and 
are miserable when we lose them. When 
our friends are living and happy, we feel as 
if they were immortal; when they are gone, 
we mourn for them as if they were lost for- 
ever. 

I saw the book of nature spread open be- 
fore me, as I stood in this place of death ; 
and it seemed as if I could read better things 
on its illuminated page. It is a revelation 
of God, like Christianity. If our Saviour 
told his disciples to gather instruction from 
the lowly flowers, there must be something 
taught in all the grand and beautiful works 
of God. I cannot believe, that the sun and 
moon have shone six thousand years merely 
to enlighten the world ; or that the planets 
wheel through their bewildering paths, only 
to gladden the eye with their beauty. These 
things have a holier purpose, a religious de- 
sign. We see, that not a leaf fades, till the 
purpose of its existence is fulfilled ; and then 
we learn, that the infant cannot perish, though 
in the sight of men it seems to die. ' He ask- 
ed life of thee, and thou gavest it him ; even 
length of days forever and ever.' All this is 
more than confirmed by Christianity; and re- 
ligion hardly acknowledges such a thing as 
death ; for there is no such thing as death to 



84 



the soul. The change, which bears the name 
of death, cannot deprive it of one of its affec- 
tions or its powers ; and if any human spirits 
are prepared to enter the heavenly mansions, 
they must be those that have left this world 
in the day-break of their existence, before 
they have been darkened by calamity, or 
profaned by sin. The time which is best 
for beginning their immortal improvement, 
is the time to die ; and if we had the power, 
who would dare withhold them from their 
Father and our Father, from their God and 
our God? 

I left that place with a conviction which I 
hope will never fail me ; a conviction that 
death is not the momentous change we 
imagine. It is neither the close of life, nor 
the beginning of immortal existence. The 
change, which makes man religious, should 
date the time when the 4 corruptible puts 
on incorruption, and the mortal, immortal- 
ity.' The first heralds of our faith, the 
most intrepid men the world ever saw, re- 
garded death with comparative indifference ; 
they looked upon it, not as a time when they 
should be altered in their destiny, character, 
or feeling; it was simply a dissolution of the 
form ; a release from the body, whose infir- 
mities had so often weighed down the soul. 



85 



The heaven of the blest begins, when they 
begin to feel the peace which religion gives; 
death will only place them where the shad- 
ows of earth shall no longer surround them ; 
they will go on in the same path which they 
trod below ; or rather in the same direction, 
for they shall ascend with 'wings as eagles,' 
and go on rejoicing in their glorious flight 
through the boundless heaven. 

Oh ! that we understood this ! Then the 
relation of parents and of children would be 
far more endearing and exalted. They, who 
give their children life, are to give them im- 
mortality. When they teach them to add 
the beauty of holiness to the beauty of child- 
hood and of youth; when they impress reli- 
gion on their souls, by the eloquence of the 
simple story, or the music of the plaintive 
hymn; when they show them how to gather 
the harvest of peace and happiness, which 
forms the heaven of the blest, they are mak- 
ing them immortal. To them, there shall be 
no more death. The grave shall not be an 
interruption in that never ending way, in 
which they pass from glory to glory on eith- 
er side the grave. And they who are taken 
before their promise is unfolded — when their 
smiles are bright with an intelligence which 
only a parent's eye can read — do not taste 
9 



86 



of death ; they are translated, like the early 
friend of God. 

Let those, who are weeping for their chil- 
dren, remember this and be comforted. That 
loved one is with him, who suffered children 
to come to him when he lived below. It is 
with the spirits of the just. Had it lived, it 
might have been happy ; but now, there is 
no uncertainty. It lives where it must be 
happy. The gentle star is not quenched so 
soon as they imagine. They see it no lon- 
ger, because it is lost in the deeper bright- 
ness of the sky. 

W. B. O. P. 

Springfield. 



STo GHffllfam.* 



It seems but yesterday my love, thy little heart beat high; 
And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou must die, 
I saw thee move with active bound; with spirits wild and free, 
And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee. 

Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, 
Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the morning sky; 
And often as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair, 
Thy cheek displayed the red rose tint that health had painted 
there. 

And then in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice, 
To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice, — 
Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to tears ; 
'Twas like the sounds I used to hear, in old and happier years ! 

Thanks for that memory to thee, my little lovely boy ; 

That memory of my youthful bliss,which time would fain destroy. 

I listened, as the mariner suspends the out-bound oar, 

To taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native shore. 

So gentle in thy loveliness ! alas, how could it be, 
That death would not forbear to lay his icy hand on thee ? 
Nor spare thee yet a little while, in childhood's opening bloom, 
While many a sad and weary soul was longing for the tomb ? 

Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know ? 

Or why did heaven so soon destroy my paradise below? 

Enchanting as the vision was, it sunk away as soon, 

As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at noon. 



* These lines, written by a bereaved father, appeared first, as 
we aie informed by the author, in a distant journal. 



38 



I loved thee, and my heart was blest ; but ere that day was spent, 
I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent, 
And shuddered as I cast a look upon thy fainting head ; 
The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost fled. 

Days passed ; and soon the seal of death made known that hope 
was vain ; 

I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never burn again ; 
The cheek was pale ; the snowy lips were gently thrown apart ; 
And life in every passing breath seemed gushing from the heart. 

I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be press 'd, 
And floods of feeling, undefined, rolled widely o'er my breast; 
Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms, seem'd moving in the gloom, 
As if death's dark array were come to bear thee to the tomb. 

Andwhen I could not keep the tear from gathering in my eye, 
Thy little hand pressed gently mine in token of reply ; 
To ask one more exchange of love, thy look was upward cast, 
And in that long and burning kiss, thy happy spirit pass'd ! 

I never trusted to have lived, to bid farewell to thee, 

And almost said in agony, it ought not so to be ; 

I hoped that thou, within the grave, my weary head shouldst lay, 

And live, beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day. 

With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close ; 
And almost envied, in that hour, thy calm and deep repose j 
For I was left in loneliness, with pain and grief oppress'd, 
And thou wast with the sainted, where the weary are at rest. 

Yes ! I am sad and weary now ; but let me not repine, 
Because a spirit, loved so well, is earlier blessed than mine j 
My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore, 
Since thou art where the ills of life can never reach thee more. 



Springfield, 



W. B. O. P. 



£i)e (Ktmsttau's Solace utitrer tj)e 3Loss of 
Tortuous iFrtetiXrs- 

For I would not have you ignorant concerning them, which are 
asleep, that ye sorrow not even as others that have no hope. 

A beautiful feature, by which the spirit 
of our religion is distinguished from that of 
mere philosophy, is, that while the latter for- 
bids the indulgence of the natural emotions 
of sorrow, the former presents specific sour- 
ces of relief. The philosopher would say 
that it is unwise and unmanly to mourn, 
since our grief cannot change the course of 
events. The christian gives way to the feel- 
ings of nature, which prompt the bursting 
tear and sad regret ; but at the same time, 
his sorrow is not without hope. The philos- 
opher would bow to the stern necessity of 
fate, without a struggle ; the christian sub- 
mits his overflowing heart to the gracious 
will of God. 

The christian has no faith in that unfeel- 
ing stoicism, which can part, unmoved, with 
the cherished and the beloved ; but if his 
soul is overwhelmed within him, he knows 
where to look for deliverance. Perhaps the 
9* 



90 



truly devout and religious man feels more 
keenly than others the separation of those 
ties, which bind him to his friends ; for the 
spirit of piety is one of sensibility; and he 
who is most susceptible to the influences of 
religion, may receive most deeply the im- 
pressions of grief. He is alive, moreover, 
to many associations, that are not regarded 
by the thoughtless, which make the heart 
more delicate and yielding, so that the event, 
which passes lightly over others, sinks into 
his soul. But if he is more exposed to the 
influence of sorrow, he has also deeper foun- 
tains of consolation. God giveth not as 
the world giveth, and while he touches the 
heart with the rod of affliction, he imparts 
strength to sustain the blow. 

The sorrow, which arises from the loss of 
friends is alleviated with peculiar tenderness 
by the promises of the gospel. In how dif- 
ferent a light does death appear to the chris- 
tian, and to him who is without hope ! Be- 
fore life and immortality were brought to 
light by Jesus Christ, death was, emphati- 
cally, the king of terrors. When the do- 
mestic hearth was invaded by his approach, 
and a loved one snatched away, the surviv- 
ors could only mourn over his vacant place, 
but they knew not whither he was gone. 



They might consume his remains on the fu- 
neral pile, but while the mingling flames 
pointed to heaven, they could perceive no 
emblem of the spirit, which had gone up- 
ward. They might gather his ashes in an 
urn ; and in those frail relics, they saw all 
that was left of the friend who had rejoiced 
with them in the intercourse of life. Their 
wise men, indeed, had reasoned, and their 
poets had sung of the Elysian fields, where 
the brave, and the renowned, were happy ; 
but it was a happiness, which excited no 
distinct hopes, and offered no real consola- 
tion. It seemed more like a mysterious 
dream of fancy, than a definite object of 
faith. It was a beautiful subject of specu- 
lation ; but it took no hold of the heart. No 
light from the spiritual world had visited 
their eyes ; no glad tidings of salvation had 
been announced to their ears ; no assurance 
of a conscious immortality had blessed their 
souls. They sorrowed as those without hope. 

Far different are the views with which the 
christian regards those, who in the pathetic 
language of inspiration, 4 are asleep in Je- 
sus.' He looks upon death, not as the ter- 
mination of their existence, but as the en- 
trance to a higher state of being. His hopes 
are not buried in the grave, to which he 



9-2 



commits the remains of mortality, but they 
follow the spirit, which hath cast off its 
fleshly garments, to abodes of life and light, 
which are none the less real, because they 
are invisible. Though he leaves the body of 
the friend, who was dear to him, in the dark 
and narrow house appointed for all living, 
he does not sorrow as those who have no 
hope ; for he believes that as the dust re- 
turned to the dust as it was, the spirit has 
returned to God, who gave it. 

The christian regards those who have 
slept in Jesus, as still objects of remem- 
brance and affection. There is a union be- 
tween heaven and earth. The angels in 
heaven were once mortals on earth; and 
mortals on earth are to become as angels in 
heaven. They are both members of a spir- 
itual society, in which a spiritual and blessed 
fellowship exists. This unites the relations 
<i>f the future world with those of the pres- 
ent- It connects the living with the dead. 
It embraces in one spiritual family the loved 
whom we have lost, and the loved who re- 
main. They who have gone from us still 
live in our memory ; and our spirits com- 
mune with theirs in the fellowship of love. 
Though we shall see their faces no more in 
the flesh, the record of their virtues is en- 



93 



graved upon our hearts ; and the hope that 
we shall again be united with them, takes 
away the bitterness of grief from the recol- 
lection of the past. While we indulge this 
hope, it is without pain, that officious mem- 
ory paints before us the joys and sorrows of 
other days, till the experience of years seems 
crowded into a moment. We do not refuse 
to dwell upon the events and scenes that we 
have enjoyed or suffered together ; which, 
though faded from the mind, are now re- 
vived in their original freshness by the ap- 
proach of death, just as his touch often im- 
parts to the worn and altered features of age, 
the expression of their youth. 

It was said, that we are again to be united 
with those who have slept in Jesus. This 
hope is an important circumstance, in which 
the sorrow of the christian differs from the 
sorrow of him, who is destitute of the gos- 
pel. If there is a prospect of again behold- 
ing our departed friends, how much is the 
pain of separation mitigated ! The parting 
of the loved is, then, the parting of a friend 
who goes before us on a journey, which we are 
soon to commence, and at the end of which 
we shall meet. But may we cherish this 
delightful hope as an alleviation of our sor- 
roAV ? Do we not deceive ourselves by be- 



94 



lieving what we wish to be true ? On a sub- 
ject so obscure as the peculiar nature of the 
future life, well does it become a creature of 
the dust to be modest and humble. But if 
our light is feeble and faint, we ought not to 
close our eyes on that which we may obtain ; 
and to the devout inquirer, it will probably 
appear, that the voice of scripture unites 
with that of reason, to declare that the good* 
who have loved each other on earth, will re- 
new their friendship in heaven. How con- 
stantly did Paul speak of meeting with the ob- 
jects of his apostolic care and affection, in the 
day which he looked for to consummate his 
hopes ! ' For what,' asks he, 1 is our hope 
and joy, and crown of rejoicing ? Are 
not ye, in the day of the Lord Jesus V In 
the midst of his labours he is comforted 
by the faith, that they, who have been saved 
by his preaching, will appear with him, as 
his joy and crown, at the coming of the- 
Lord. 

We are told, moreover, that the blessed 
in heaven are united in ascribing honour 
and thanksgiving to the Saviour, who loved 
them, and died for them. Absent from the 
body, they are present with the Lord. And 
if present together with him, must they 
not be united with each other ? Do not the 
innumerable company of angels, the multi- 



95 



tude which no man can number, before the 
throne, form the general assembly and church 
of the redeemed, in which they who were 
united in the bonds of virtuous friendship 
on earth, are united in everlasting love in 
heaven 1 

Does not reason also permit us to indulge 
the pleasing hope of renewing, hereafter, the 
holy attachments which death has interrupt- 
ed? Are we not the same in character, 
feeling, and affection, beyond the grave, that 
we are now ? Do not the same arguments 
which authorize us to hope for a conscious 
existence of progressive virtue, lead us also 
to hope that the friends, whom we have lov- 
ed, will advance with us 1 Is it an objection, 
that great diversities of excellence and 
knowledge may prevent a perfect sympathy 
in the minds of those who are re-united after 
a temporary separation ? But if sympathy 
were incompatible with superiority, who 
could hope for communion with die son of 
God ? And it may be no baseless vision, 
that the blessed, who have gone before, take 
delight to instruct those who shall come 
after ; and that our minds will receive a holy 
influence from those purified spirits, who 
have preceded us into the regions of eternal 
day. We may learn the mysteries of the 



96 



universe and of God, from those with whom 
we have here taken sweet counsel ; and who 
have opened their eyes on the light of eter- 
nity, while we are left to wander among the 
shadows of time. 

With such a faith, we need not be igno- 
rant concerning those who are asleep. We 
need not sorrow, as those who have no hope. 
Death is no longer the king of terrors, with 
authority to execute the sentence, 4 Dust 
thou art, and unto dust thou must return 
but a messenger of peace, to bear the souls 
of the righteous to the presence of God. 

G. R. 



#estts <&jmst, tjje true Source of <£ott sola turn. 



Lord, to whom shall we go ? Thou hast the words of 
eternal life. 

The scene in which we live is one of per- 
petual change and disappointment, The 
morning sun rises bright and beautiful, and 
we promise ourselves a fair and a happy day. 
But before noon, the horizon is overcast with 
clouds ; and when we look to the west for 
the gorgeous pictures, that are wont to be 
painted on the evening sky, we find that the 
heavens are veiled in darkness and in gloom. 
We have enjoyed, it may be, a long period 
of prosperity. The blessings of Providence 
have descended upon us in an uninterrupted 
and unmingled stream. Our plans have all 
been prospered. Our adventurous enter- 
prises have all succeeded. Our hopes, our 
desires, our vainest wishes, have all been 
gratified. Health, and ease, and tranquillity, 
have been the constant inmates of our dwel- 
lings ; and the glad voices of contentment 
and joy have responded to each other from 
every side. Our friends have been about us, 
and our family has been a blessed society, 
bound together by the ties of natural aftec- 
10 



93 



tion and mutual esteem. For years, all 
things have gone well with us. We have 
floated down the stream of time on a cur- 
rent so placid and noiseless, that we have 
been insensible even to our progress. We 
have admired the pleasant scenery about us, 
and caught a glimpse of a still fairer pros- 
pect beyond it, and have settled down in the 
quiet luxury of unmingled bliss. 

On a sudden, a change comes over this 
happy scene. Affliction, sickness, bereave- 
ment, take up their abode in our dwelling. 
In the affecting language of scripture, 
' beauty is changed into ashes, the oil of joy 
into mourning, and the garment of praise 
into the spirit of heaviness.' God changeth 
the countenances of friends and relatives, 
and sendeth them away. A venerated par- 
ent, whose head was silvered by the frosts 
of many winters, is removed from the sight 
of the children, whom she led up along the 
paths of infancy and childhood with a moth- 
er's tenderness, and whom she guided and 
counselled, in their maturer years, with a 
mother's instinctive wisdom. A husband is 
snatched away from the bosom of his family 
— his wife is a widow, and his children are 
fatherless. Parents are called to mourn the 
early departure of a child, who, by its inno- 



99 



cence and young affection, had twined itself 
about their hearts, and whose dissolution 
was felt like the dismembering of their own 
frame, One after another, we are all called 
to drink of the bitter cup of bereavement, 
and to resign those respected and beloved 
ones, in whom we had treasured up our 
hopes. There is no exemption from this 
common lot of humanity. The tears that 
we once shed with such a true and ready 
sympathy for the sorrows of others, at last 
fall warm and frequent for our own. Ob- 
servation is now turned into experience, and 
we feel that we never knew before the an- 
guish of a bereaved heart. 

Such being the universal and inevitable 
lot, mankind have been led, in every age, to 
look around them for support and comfort. 
They called upon nature, and besought her, 
by her marvellous and mysterious agency, 
to give them knowledge and relief. But na- 
ture, though she every where displays the 
marks of a designing mind and a contriving 
hand, could not tell why the wheels of life 
stood still, or whether they would ever again 
be put in motion. They looked up to the 
heavens, and conjured the stars, that never 
faint in their watches, to send down their 
benign influences, to impart light to the be- 



100 



nighted mind and peace to the troubled 
heart. But the bright orbs above, though 
they move on as if they were animated and 
guided by an angel's power, were deaf to 
the cry of their worshippers, and could af- 
ford them no intelligence concerning the 
spirit that once tenanted that cold and life- 
less form. They applied to the oracles of 
wisdom, and to the sages of a lettered age for 
succour and consolation. But the responses 
of philosophy were as chill and cheerless as 
the marble forehead that lay before them. 
The best consolations that she had to offer, 
were, that separation and bereavement were 
inevitable; that tears and lamentations were 
unavailing ; that there could be no remedy, 
nor relief ; and that therefore it was wrong 
and impious to grieve. How cold and com- 
fortless must these suggestions have appear- 
ed to the mourner as he bent over the life- 
less remains of his friend. Well might the 
Roman emperor say, when these vain com- 
forts were administered to him, that so far 
from soothing, they served only to aggravate 
his grief. 

We have seen how inefficacious, and un- 
satisfactory, are the consolations of nature, 
of reason, and of human wisdom. We have 
drank of their waters, but have found that 



101 



we have not drawn from the wells of peace 
and salvation. To whom, then, shall we 
go ? With the enthusiastic confidence of 
Peter we may exclaim, c Lord, to whom 
shall we go ? Thou hast the words of eter- 
nal life.' Yes, in our moments of lonely 
sorrow, we must leave our earthly supports, 
and have recourse to an heavenly comforter. 
We must listen to the teachings of Jesus, 
to the gracious and soothing words of him 
who spake as never man spake, and we shall 
find rest and peace to our souls. We shall 
attest the efficacy and recognize the value 
of the christian faith, and find, by happy 
experience, that 4 consolation aboundeth by 
Christ.' 

Let the mourner open the New Testa- 
ment, and turn to the simple and affecting 
narrative of the resurrection of Lazarus. 
His sickness, the anxiety of his sisters, and 
their grief at his death, are pourtrayed with 
such minuteness of detail, and with such ex- 
act conformity to truth and nature, that we 
almost feel ourselves transported through 
the interval of ages to the little village of 
Bethany. We are present at the solemn 
parting scene. We weep with the mourners. 
We mingle with the sad group who follow 
the departed to his dark resting place, and 
10* 



102 



we see the stone rolled upon the mouth of 
the sepulchre. — And now is there one of that 
concourse who stand around the tomb, into 
whose mind the thought has ever entered, 
that that body, which he had seen folded in 
the garments of death, and deposited among 
the relics of mortality, shall again be instinct 
with life and motion 1 Let him come but a 
few days hence, and he will see gathered 
around the spot another multitude. They 
have not come merely to weep there ; for 
curiosity, and expectation, and an undefined 
hope, may be traced in their anxious coun- 
tenances. There is one among them who 
was not present at the interment. The deep 
emotion, which he is unable to suppress, in- 
dicates that he was a friend of the departed ; 
and the intent gaze with which all eyes regard 
him, justifies the suspicion that he is some- 
thing more than an ordinary personage. The 
authority with which he speaks, 'Take ye 
away the stone,' raises still higher the expec- 
tation of the crowd. Why should he wish to 
behold the features of him who has been dead 
four days already 1 He does not wish to be- 
hold them. It is not an idle curiosity, nor even 
the call of friendship, which has summoned 
him hither, and now governs his conduct. 
It is to manifest the power of God, that he 



103 



stands by that opened tomb, and after lifting 
his eyes, and breathing his prayer to heaven, 
cries, 6 Lazarus, come forth !' And, behold ! 
he that was dead comes forth. The powers 
of nature resume their accustomed functions. 
The current of life rushes once more through 
his veins. The pale visage is suffused with 
the bloom of recovered existence. The 
eyelid is raised ; and instead of that dim 
and heavy ball which it before concealed, 
the bright index of intelligence beams full 
upon you. The rigid muscles relax ; the 
stiff limbs become pliant; and the reanimat- 
ed man moves forward to salute his aston- 
ished friends ! 

By the resurrection of Lazarus, the de- 
clarations of the Saviour are fulfilled, and 
the hopes of the believer are confirmed. 
Faith is changed into reality. We know 
that the mysterious change through which 
we pass at death, does not affect the intel- 
lectual and spiritual part of our nature. 
We feel confident, that Jesus hath abolished 
death, and brought life and immortality to 
light. We are cheered in the time of be- 
reavement, and supported in the hour of 
dissolution, by his blessed assurance, 4 Be- 
cause I live, ye shall live also.' 

A. Y. 



Kwprobement to lie trertbetr from examples of 
ssirtrtrnt 3Bzzt%* 



As for man, his days are as grass. As a flower of the field, so he 
flourisbeth. 

Religion directs our attention to death, 
not that we may be depressed and subdued 
by its terrors, but that we may triumph over 
them ; that we may learn to anticipate the 
grave with calmness, and may descend into 
it with hope, and even joy. Religion calls 
us to think of death, because, though at first 
alarming, it has a healing virtue, and purines 
and elevates the mind in which it dwells. 
Fear not, then, to converse with the tomb. 
To that solemn region we are all hastening ; 
and whilst our minds are unclouded by dis- 
ease, whilst reflection can avail us, let us ap- 
proach it and hear the voice* of wisdom 
which issues from its recesses. 

* These extracts the compiler has been permitted to select from 
the manuscript of a distinguished clergyman, which had inciden- 
tally come into his hands. They are taken from a discourse de- 
livered on a Sabbath following the sudden death of a valued friend 
and parishioner, and of a useful citizen ; the interesting circum- 
stances of which are improved with the feeling and eloquence 
they were suited to inspire. 



105 



The scriptures labour, if I may so speak, 
to give us deep impressions of the brief and 
uncertain duration of human life. On no 
subject, are stronger, more touching, more 
awakening illustrations employed. How 
very striking and affecting the metaphor of 
the text: 4 As for man, his days are as grass.' 
Man is compared to a feeble blade in the 
field, which bends with every wind, which is 
now swept away by the storm ; now trodden 
under foot by the traveller ; now cut down, 
in a moment, by the husbandman ; now as* 
sailed, at the root, by the secret worm ; and 
now withered by blasts too subtile for the eye 
to discern. But man is not only compared 
to the grass : 'As a flower of the field, so he 
flourisheth.' Here, he is likened to the 
flower — the frailest, and most perishable 
production of vegetable nature ; which opens 
its bosom to the morning light, and delights 
us by its fragrance and beauty ; but at night 
we see it shrivelled and perished ; its head 
drooping ; its bright hues faded ; and its 
leaves fallen to the earth, or scattered through 
the air. The scorching or chilling wind has 
passed over it, and it is gone ; and the place 
that knew it, will know it no more. In the 
scriptures we find other illustrations, equally 
striking, of the vanity of human life. And 



106 



I need not repeat to you the evidences 
which such passages derive from experience. 
On this point, all ages and nations bear con- 
current testimony. Generation after gener- 
ation, in unbroken succession, have descend- 
ed to the tomb, and swelled the proofs of 
human frailty. Every object, we see, has 
some association with death. We are sur- 
rounded, on every side, with the labours of 
the dead. Our possessions, our institutions, 
our language, and religion, have descended 
to us from the dead. Multitudes, whom we 
have known, many beloved friends, have 
gone to join the dead. Every day erects a 
new trophy to the powers of the grave ; 
every day speaks to us of mortality. 

But among the multiplied proofs of our 
frailty, none are so striking as the exam- 
ples of sudden death, which we are occa- 
sionally called to witness ; and by which, a 
wise, and, I will add, a benevolent providence 
intends to rouse an unreflecting world. In 
protracted disease, man seems to struggle, 
with a temporary success, against the last 
foe ; and though he falls, yet his protracted 
defeat, his endurance of the painful conflict, 
lead us to speak of the power of life. But, 
when arrested in the midst of an active ca- 
reer ; when cut down in the moment of 



107 



vigour and hope ; when levelled, by a single 
blow, to the earth, how impotent, how frail, 
does man appear ! In sudden death, the 
display of human frailty is almost too pow- 
erful for our faculties. We can hardly be- 
lieve that life has so suddenly fled ; that the 
transition from health to the tomb has been 
so awfully short. As we look on the mo- 
tionless body, over which death has obtained 
this dreadful triumph, we cannot separate 
from it the active power and sensibility, 
which, but a moment past, it possessed. 
The breast still seems to heave ; the lip 
seems ready to speak, and assure us, that 
the report of death is a delusion. We can- 
not realize, that a friend is so soon gone. 
But time brings home the truth to our hearts, 
and unless we are insensible, a solemn feel- 
ing of our own frailty takes possession of 
our minds. 

On the last Sunday, I spoke of the possi- 
bility of sudden death. I observed, that we 
have not the promise, even of an hour ; that 
at night, when we sink into sleep, that im- 
age of death, we have no pledge, that we 
shall awake again on the earth. Little did 
I imagine, that these truths were to receive, 
in a few hours, a most solemn verification. 
Little did I think, that one who heard, one 



108 



whose health was as firm, and whose hopes 
of life as ardent as my own, was, before 
another morning, to receive the stroke of 
death, and to be extended before my eyes a 
lifeless corpse. When, on the next morn- 
ing, my slumbers were disturbed by the sad 
tidings, that one of our number had gone, it 
seemed to me a dream ; and for a moment 
I put from me as an impossibility, what I 
had admonished you to feel as a most valu- 
able truth. But my incredulity soon gave 
way to solemn conviction. I saw, I felt, 
that one, whose friendship and kindness had 
given him many claims to my esteem ; a 
most valuable member of this society ; a 
most useful citizen ; one, who sustained and 
filled with affectionate assiduity the tender- 
est relations of domestic life ; one, whose 
ready zeal was pressed into the service of 
almost every public institution, was torn 
from us in a moment, before one fear for his 
safety had prepared the mind for his depar- 
ture. He left this house at the close of the 
last Sabbath, with a step as firm, a form as 
erect, and anticipations as unchecked by ap- 
prehension, as any of us. He spoke of the 
discourse he had heard ; of its application 
to a recent danger, which he had escaped, 
and which threatened immediate death. He 



109 



spoke of the engagements of the week, on 
which he had entered. In the evening, he 
was occupied in arrangements for the ap- 
proaching anniversary of a benevolent in- 
stitution ; and we have reason to think, 
that before midnight the hand of death 
was upon him. He was called without 
warning; called in the midst of life. No 
infirmities or pains sloped his way to the 
grave. His descent was almost instantane- 
ous to the tomb. He was taken from the 
midst of useful labours. He was taken from 
the midst of a rising family. Time was not 
given him' to say farewell; to receive the 
last offices of affection ; to give those tokens 
of love, which survivors cherish in such ten- 
der remembrance. He was gone, before 
friendship could extend its supporting hand, 
or skill could apply its resources and miti- 
gations. He was left in health ; he was 
found drawing the last breath. He had 
travelled the gloomy vale alone, and with a 
speed which outstrips imagination. "What 
an astonishing change ! this hour, partaking 
of all the enjoyments of life ; the next, 
struggling with the last pain. This hour, 
vigorous, efficient, giving the pledge of fu- 
ture usefulness ; the next, unable to raise an 
arm, or to rise from the couch on which he 
11 



110 



was extended. At night, full of motion, and 
in the morning, lifeless, inert clay. The 
ear closed on the well-known voice ; the eye 
on the light of heaven, and every familiar 
and beloved scene. At night, the counte- 
nance illumined with thought and emotion, 
and his presence the delight of his friends ; 
in the morning, that countenance fixed, pal- 
lid, inexpressive, and that body removed 
from sight, or seen only with sorrow. At 
night, an inhabitant of this world, a pos- 
sessor of its wealth and comforts, bound to 
it by many ties, a husband, a father, a son, 
a brother, a friend. In the morning, gone 
forever ; placed beyond the reach of earthly 
kindness ; every earthly tie broken ; every 
earthly possession abandoned, and the spirit 
entered on an untried being. Changes so 
great, in so short a time, almost overwhelm 
the mind, and disturb the exercise of under- 
standing. We can scarcely believe what we 
see. 

As I stood by the body of our friend, 
doubt mingled with my sorrow. I spoke to 
him, and could hardly feel that my voice 
was lost in air. I pressed his cold hand, and 
could hardly realize that the pressure would 
no more be returned. But he is gone; gone 
to be seen no more in this world. I look to 



Ill 



the seat, which he so constantly filled, and 
where, on these occasions, I have often met 
his fixed eye, and he is gone. I enter his 
house, which was always open to welcome 
me, and in a thousand signs, I see that he is 
no more. In the concourse of business, he 
will be met no more. His zeal, which never 
shrunk from any work of usefulness, will no 
longer be our resource and aid ; his day is 
finished, when we thought it not half expir- 
ed ; his sun is set at noon ; his labours are 
ended ; he is gone to his account. 

To us, my friends, who were fellow-wor- 
shippers with the deceased ; who so lately 
received with him the admonitions of relig- 
ion, to us, this event speaks loudly. Let it 
not speak in vain. It calls us to converse 
with the tomb ; to meditate on our frail- 
ty, and especially to feel our exposure to 
sudden death. This impression is one of 
the last we receive ; and yet, how needed 
and how salutary ! In health, we place 
death at a distance ; we have, as we imag- 
ine, a resource of strength, which cannot be 
easily exhausted. But who, that knows the 
human frame, does not know the narrow 
partition, which separates between life and 
death ? An artery, that thin, slender tex- 
sure, which throbs beneath the touch, holds 



112 



in trust the life of man ; a rupture in this 
frail vessel is enough for our destruction. 
A little blood, diverted from its ordinary 
channel, quenches at once the vital spark ; 
the very nutriment of our frame thus be- 
comes the cause of immediate death. Who 
can place his hand on the beating heart, and 
not feel the slightness of the bulwark, which 
defends the fount of life ? And shall such 
beings promise themselves many days ? In 
addition to the delicacy of our frames, we 
are exposed to immediate death by almost 
every object which surrounds us. Every 
element may be converted by God into a 
weapon of destruction. The air which we 
breathe, now charged with poisonous va- 
pour, and now precipitated in storms, often 
destroys the life, which it has sustained. In 
the ocean many find a sudden grave. The 
flame, which warms and cheers, often passes 
its limits, and involves the dwelling, and its 
tenants in immediate ruin. The cloud sends 
death on wings rapid as thought. The fleet 
animal who carries us, has our lives at his 
disposal. We are never safe. The sword 
hangs by a hair over our heads. "Whilst we 
seem secure, some secret obstruction is gath- 
ering strength in the seat of life. The thin 
partition, which removes us from death may 



113 



be wearing away. This head, now crowded 
with so many schemes, may be smitten with 
sudden apoplexy. This heart which beats 
with so many hopes, may be contracted with 
sudden and mortal spasms. 

My friends, I have dwelt on your exposure 
to sudden death, not to fill your minds with 
gloomy images, but to rouse you to religious 
reflections, to self examination, and to a 
course of life, which will make death, 
whether sudden or long deferred, an un- 
speakable blessing. I have wished to lead 
you to a more serious inquiry into your 
characters. You have seen your frailty, 
that on this night, or at a season, as little 
threatening as this night, your lives may be 
required of you. The great question is, are 
you prepared for this event ? are you willing 
to appear as you now are before God 1 is 
there no change which must be made 1 Do 
I speak to none, whose consciences remind 
them of God forgotten or disobeyed ? of 
known duty habitually neglected ? of known 
sin habitually practised 1 of life spent with- 
out reflection and without regard to the ac- 
knowledged revelation of God 1 of social 
relations unfaithfully sustained ? of unjust 
gains 1 of intemperate indulgence ? Let me 
advise and urge you to break off your sins by 
11* 



114 



immediate repentance. The present may 
be the last admonition. You cannot prom- 
ise yourselves the poor privileges of a dying- 
bed. Begin to retrieve the past ; to live to 
God ; to be blessings to society ; to work, 
for the night is at hand. If death be always 
near, and may so suddenly overtake you, 
then let the whole of life be a preparation 
for death. This is no impracticable precept. 
Preparation for death does not consist ex- 
clusively, as has sometimes been thought, in 
immediate acts of piety, and much less in 
abstinence from the active pursuits and in- 
nocent pleasures of the present state. It 
consists in what may be our constant busi- 
ness ; in the discharge of our various duties 
toward God, our neighbours, and ourselves ; 
and is always proportioned to the degree of 
improvement which we have made in a so- 
ber, righteous, and godly life. At all times 
and in all places, it is possible to prepare 
for death. Every christian duty, no matter 
when, or where performed ; every act of up- 
rightness ; every benevolent purpose and 
deed ; every candid judgment ; every forgiv- 
ing disposition ; every temperate and grate- 
ful reception of God's blessings ; every re- 
signation of ourselves to God's will ; every 
conscientious labour ; every exercise of do- 



115 



mestic virtue ; every restraint of our pas- 
sions ; every conquest over temptation ; 
every service to the cause of religion and 
virtue ; every sacrifice of ease and interest 
to truth and justice, and other's happiness ; 
in one word, every thought, word, feeling, 
or action, which is regulated by a sense of 
duty, which expresses a christian spirit, 
which contributes to the improvement of our 
characters, enters into and constitutes a part 
of our preparation for that solemn change, 
to which we are constantly exposed. Be 
this your serious concern. Do not forget 
your characters and your future interest in 
pursuit of a world, which may so suddenly 
vanish from you. 



O death, where is thy -sting ! O grave, where is thy victory. 

The victory, which God has given us over 
death, is illustrated by St Paul in one of the 
most interesting and impressive chapters in 
New Testament. He insists on the fact of 
our Lord's real and literal resurrection ; 
and, infers from it, the final and literal re- 
surrection of all mankind. He defends and 
illustrates the subject as a fundamental doc- 
trine of the gospel. 

In considering some of the means, by 
which God gives us this victory, we may re- 
mark, 

1. That he has provided for it in the orig- 
inal constitution of the human mind, by en- 
abling us to find support and constancy, un- 
der the pressure of present evil, in our an- 
ticipations of future good. 

The mere fact of our immortality could 
do nothing, of course, to sustain us in the 
hour of death, unless it were revealed ; and 
even if it were revealed, it would still be to 
no purpose, unless our minds were capable of 



117 



appreciating and applying the doctrine. It 
is not enough, that we believe in the abstract 
doctrine of a future state. We must be 
able, in some sense, to make this future state 
present to us, and enter upon it, as it were, 
by anticipation, so that what we hope, may 
sustain us under what we endure. A wise 
and merciful Creator has provided for this, 
in the original constitution of man ; a prin- 
ciple, which we continually see operating, 
even in the affairs of this world, to soothe 
the pains and lighten the burdens of human 
life. We not only hope for good to come, 
but this hope enables us to enter on the ac- 
tual enjoyment of this good, as it were, by 
anticipation. We hope to meet a friend, 
and this hope brings up the image of our 

j friend ; and we feel, for the moment, as if 

I he were before us, and the thought is at- 
tended with something of the joy of the real 
meeting. I verily believe, that but for this 
power, which God has given us, to borrow 
from the future, the troubles of life would be 

[ insupportable. 

What is it that cheers the toil of the in- 
defatigable student, but the hope of the 

I knowledge and distinction, his acquirements 
will give him, and which he already begins 
to enjoy by anticipation? What is it, that 



118 



braces the nerves of the sick man to submit 
with such firmness to the severest and most 
painful remedies, but the hope of returning 
health, which he already begins to enjoy by 
anticipation ? What is it, that keeps up the 
spirits of the weary traveller, when he con- 
siders the fatigues and dangers of the way 
that separates him from his home, but the 
thought of that home and its delights, which 
he already begins to enjoy by anticipation 1 
And so it is with the pilgrim of eternity. 
Oh ! it is a glorious prerogative of man, that 
his immortal part can go out from amidst 
the circumstances of gloom and sorrow, by 
which the mortal is encompassed and op- 
pressed, and live in other scenes. The soul 
of the dying christian is not dying with his 
body; but is back, in memory, among the 
happy scenes of a well spent life ; or is 
mingling in affectionate embraces with the 
friends it is to leave ; or has already enter- 
ed, by anticipation, on the joys of heaven. 
The valley of the shadow of death is before 
him ; but before his feet have begun to de - 
scend, his mind has crossed it, and is living 
and rejoicing in fields of perpetual verdure 
and brightness, that have met his vision, and 
stretch interminably beyond. 

% Another means, by which God has giv- 



119 



en us the victory over death, is by inspiring 
us with entire confidence in the wisdom and 
goodness of his dispensations. 

In this respect our heavenly Father has 
proceeded as any other parent would in re- 
gard to his children. He has taken meas- 
ures to deserve and obtain our entire confi- 
dence. Without this confidence in him per- 
sonally, of course, we could have none in his 
promises, or in the scriptures, which contain 
those promises. We pause, then, and pon- 
der on the ways of God, from which, alone, 
we are to infer his character ; and we find 
them every where marked, and strongly 
marked, by an essential and inexhaustible 
benignity. Nay, we find, that a principal 
reason why we do not make more of his 
blessings, is, that they are so common ; and 
a principal reason, why we make so much of 
his judgments is, that they are so rare. Evil, 
to be sure, is sometimes incident to the ar- 
rangements and organizations, which God 
has made in the constitution of nature. But 
in no one instance can it be shown to be the 
ultimate object of such arrangements and 
organizations ; while, on the other hand, good 
can be shown to be the ultimate object in 
instances without number. Besides, when 
the evil comes, even with our very limited 



120 



experience and observation, we can almost 
always see, that it tends to some good re- 
sult, and is necessary to our final happiness ; 
and, of course, instead of being an objection 
to the divine benevolence, it is another indi- 
cation of it. And what though, in a few ca- 
ses, we may be unable to discern the object 
of a painful and afflictive dispensation ? Is 
it at all wonderful, that the creatures of a 
day, to whom the simplest events in nature 
are so many miracles, is it all wonderful, 
that we should be unable, at times, to fathom 
the purposes of infinite wisdom ? And at 
such times, is it too much to expect of us, 
that we should show an implicit confidence 
in a Being, who certainly can have no mo- 
tive to give us unnecessary pain, and who 
has proved himself, in so many ways, our 
friend and benefactor. 

We are ready enough to put the same sort 
of confidence in our fellow men, as far as 
their power extends. If an approved phy- 
sician prescribes a painful and apparently 
dangerous remedy, we do not hesitate to ap- 
ply it, though unable, ourselves, to discern 
any good purpose it can answer ; because, 
we say, that this is a subject, on which the 
physician is much better qualified to judge 
than we are. Bewildered and lost in the pas- 



121 

ses and defiles of a mountainous country, we 
procure a guide, who leads us on through 
by-ways and dark passages, that seem but 
to involve us more and more. Still, we do 
not hesitate to follow him, because we say 
that this is a subject, on which the guide 
must know much more than we can. To be 
sure, the power of man stops at the grave, 
and we cannot, therefore, trust him to de- 
liver us from that. But we can trust the 
Almighty ; for the dead, as well as the liv- 
ing, are in his hands. The last words of 
the dying believer will be : 4 Though I walk 
through the valley of the shadow of death, 
I will fear no evil : for thou art with me ; 
thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.' 

3. Again, God gives us the victory over 
death, by leading us to take proper views of 
the nature and purpose of death itself. 

Physically speaking, there seems to be no 
reason to suppose death so great an evil, as 
our imaginations are wont to make it. A 
person, who recovers from an acute disease, 
probably suffers much more from that dis- 
ease, than he would have done, if he had 
died. Many die without any signs of pain 
at all, as if falling into a swoon, or deep 
sleep. Nay, in some diseases, ease and in- 
sensibility are reckoned the most fatal symp- 
12 



122 



toms ; and the approach of death is known,, 
not by an increase, but by a total cessation, 
of pain. 

What is there, then, in being dead, from 
which an enlightened christian should shrink ? 
Man is created with powers and capacities 
capable of unlimited expansion and improve- 
ment ; and, for wise reasons, is set to begin 
an endless career of advancement in a lower 
state of being, than that on which he is af- 
terwards to live, and act ; just as a child is 
set to learn his first lessons in an inferior 
school, and is afterwards taken out of that 
school, and placed in a higher. Destined, 
therefore, to live and act in a higher state of 
being than the present, there must of course 
come a time when we shall pass into it ; 
there must come a moment of transition r 
and this moment of transition is what we 
call death. It is not extinction, or suffering, 
or punishment ; but transition merely. Our 
characters will remain the same afterwarda 
as before; and, of course, our principal 
sources of happiness or misery will remain, 
the same. Death is merely a transition from 
one mode of existence to another. It is the 
mortal putting on the immortal. This to 
the christian, we should think, would be an 
object of desire, of sincere and heart-felt de- 



123 



sire, and not of terror and dread. If it 
should be objected, that no one can know 
what awaits himself or his friends after 
death, it is enough to say in reply, that we 
do not know what awaits us before death. 
If we continue to live in this world, it must 
depend on the mercy of God, whether we 
are happy or miserable ; or if we die, we 
have but to confide in that same mercy. 
There is no extravagance, therefore, in what 
the apostle has said : 'We that are in this 
tabernacle do groan, being burdened ; not 
that we would be unclothed, but clothed 
upon, that mortality might be swallowed up 
of life.' 

4. Lastly, we are expressly taught, that 
God gives us this victory over death, through 
our Lord Jesus Christ. 

This is true in several respects. In the 
first place, because, though many wise and 
good Jews and heathens held to the princi- 
ples we have advanced, it was merely as mat- 
ter of speculation, or at best, of conjecture 
and hope ; and it is only through our Lord 
Jesus Christ, that we know them on the au- 
thority of an accredited and inspired teach- 
er. Secondly, by our Lord's own resurrec- 
tion, he has given assurance, an earnest, as 
it were, the evidence of example and fact, 



124 



for the final resurrection of all mankind. 
This was necessary. For after all that 
reason could do, there was something so 
strange, and startling, and contrary to the 
report of our senses, and all experience, in 
this doctrine of a resurrection, that we need- 
ed the evidence of example and fact, to re- 
move all feeling of its impossibility and in- 
congruity ; and give us, instead of the faint 
hope of the deist, a living and practical con- 
viction. Thirdly, through the religion, which 
our Lord has given us, he would lead us on, 
to those higher attainments and exercises in 
virtue and piety, which, by the effect they 
have on the temper, never fail to inspire an 
unwavering confidence in God, and the final 
and happy issue of all his dispensations. 
Our victory over death depends on the mor- 
al and religious proficiency we have made ; 
and this, again, depends on the instructions 
and motives set before us by our Lord Jesus 
Christ ; and of course, it is through him, that 
we conquer. Lastly, our Lord may be said 
to have purchased us, as it were, by the sa- 
crifices he has made on our account ; and 
by the character, he still bears, as our inter- 
cessor and advocate with the Father. This 
removes the only remaining objection, which 
the good man, conscious of his imperfec- 



125 



tions, might otherwise feel to going alone 
and unsupported into the presence of a Be- 
ing, whom all have offended; before whom, 
even the angels are not pure. Trusting in 
what his Saviour has done for him, and in 
the power of his intercession, the grave has 
no terrors for the sincere and devout chris- 
tian ; his triumph, his victory is complete. 

How great and constant should be our 
gratitude to God for this victory, which he 
has given us over the last, most dreaded, and 
worst-looking of our foes. Let us cherish 
and cultivate an undoubting faith in those 
hopes and expectations of another life, which 
alone can deliver from that spiritual bond- 
age, which the fear of death inspires. Let 
us guard against, and repel all temptations 
to skepticism on this subject, as we would 
guard against, and repel temptations to sin, 
or self-destruction. Above all, let us form 
and accustom ourselves to holiness ; for when 
the scriptures say, that without holiness, we 
cannot see the Lord, they mean, not only 
that we shall not see him hereafter, but that 
we cannot see him here ; and our troubles 
will unman and overwhelm us, unless we 
can see, in the hand that afflicts us, the hand 
of a Father. When called to do it, in the 
Providence of God, let us follow our friends 
12* 



126 



with a pious and unwavering trust, to those 
peaceful abodes where the dead sleep, yield- 
ing them up, without a repining thought, into 
the hands of Hirn, who has been pleased to 
make the grave, the gate of heaven. Per- 
haps our loss has been great, peculiarly 
great ; but then it is the measure, and noth- 
ing but the measure, of the blessing we 
have had. In the midst of our sorrow, 
therefore, let us not forget devoutly to thank 
God, not indeed that we have lost such a 
friend, but that ' we have had such a friend to 
lose.' And when our own frames are sinking 
under age or infirmity, may our spirits be 
sustained by that noble confidence, of which 
the apostle speaks: 4 Therefore, we are al- 
ways confident, knowing that whilst we are 
at home in the body, we are absent from the 
Lord. We are confident, I say, and willing 
rather to be absent from the body, and to be 
present with the Lord.' 

J. W, 

April, 1830. 



Wfa ©ccasi'otis ml} d&tm^§ of Hrxesstbe <&xizt 



When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the Rock, 
that is higher than I, 

There are sorrows, in which the heart may 
be overwhelmed. There are forms and cir- 
cumstances of grief, in the remembrance of 
which, even the most submissive child of 
God may say, ' I had fainted, except I had 
trusted to see the goodness of the Lord.' 
But expressions like these are to be applied 
only to the severest calamities. They can 
seldom be employed because, happily, the 
sufferings they denote are unusual. In the 
ordinary trials of life, we are not permitted 
to yield to overwhelming grief. Such a state 
would be disproportioned to the nature of 
the affliction, and inconsistent with our char- 
acter as christians and as men. The loss 
of property, unless involving a loss of repu- 
tation, which, unregretted and unatoned for, 
admits no solace ; the disappointment of 
some earthly hope, of our vanity, ambition, 
or any selfish passion, and even bereavement 



128 



itself, in fts most usual forms, would scarce- 
ly justify that desolation of the spirit, which 
seems implied in the expression of the royal 
Psalmist. Nor are there many, who are in 
much danger from such a state. The great 
proportion of mankind are impatient of trou- 
ble. It stays not long enough to overwhelm 
them. They are eager to seek relief, as 
well from its monitions as its pains, in the 
business or the amusements of life ; and one 
of the hardest works of religion is to teach 
some men how to feel ; to persuade them to 
regard the operation of the Lord, and not to 
despise his chastening. But even where 
there exists a greater sensibility, the com- 
mon trials, which our heavenly father ap- 
points, are compatible with an inward tran- 
quillity and the right discharge of duty. We 
should be grateful that it is so. Otherwise, 
the wheels of life would stop ; the order of 
families would be disturbed ; and the affairs 
of the world would be exposed to perpetual 
interruption. 

What, then, are the afflictions, that over- 
whelm the soul 1 It may be difficult to de- 
scribe them. They will be more easily un- 
derstood, than uttered ; for they are those, 
in which the heart only can know its own 
bitterness, and the stranger cannot inter- 



129 



meddle. They are those, in which Jehovah 
sometimes appears in his mysterious and in- 
comprehensible majesty; in his character as 
sovereign and judge, * creating darkness and 
evil,' rather than peace ; when his way, to 
us, is as in the sea, and his footsteps in the 
deep ; when, in the language of the despond- 
ing Psalmist, 6 deep calleth unto deep ;' one 
wave of sorrow succeeds another; and all 
God's billows are rolling over us. There 
are instances, when all the divine - chastise- 
ments seem at once inflicted ; and the re- 
cord of domestic calamity, like the scroll 
beheld in the vision of the prophet, is in- 
scribed, 4 within and without, with lamen- 
tation, and mourning and wo.' Have you 
never known the pious and affectionate 
father, the tender and devoted mother, 
called to part, in quick succession, with 
the children of their love ? with the fair ob- 
jects of their dependance and hope ? When 
so frequent and so speedy were the ravages 
of death, that the turf could scarcely harden 
over their recently opened tomb, before it 
would be afrain and again disturbed to re- 
ceive another and another, till, within a few 
weeks, almost a whole family shall be laid 
together in the dark and narrow house ; 
and the dwelling, that but a little before was 



130 



the seat of domestic cheerfulness, affection, 
and hope, is turned to solitude and gloom. 
Let us bless God, that we are not often 
called to witness such sad reverses. Yet, 
when the pestilence walks in darkness, and 
contagion multiplies its victims, such are no 
uncommon displays of the divine judgments. 
Amidst, too, those awful desolations of na- 
ture, sometimes occurring in regions, less 
favoured than our own — in the whirlwind, 
the earthquake, or the falling mountain — 
instances have been known, when scarcely 
one was spared of a numerous house ; or if 
a solitary survivor of his family, he may find 
himself without a friend to impart comfort 
to his desolated soul. To those also, who, 
even amidst the happiest communities, are 
conversant with the children of affliction, 
examples are never long wanting, to exer- 
cise their painful sympathies ; in which pov- 
erty and sickness combine, perhaps, with 
the inflictions of vice, and of an upbraiding 
conscience, to give to bereavement a pecu- 
liar and aggravated distress. It would be 
easy to pourtray scenes, which many may 
have witnessed ; and in comparison with 
which the more common allotments of heav- 
en seem as tender mercies. 

But there are other forms of overwhelm- 



131 



ing sorrow. Here is a confiding and devot* 
ed wife mourning, in the bitterness of unre- 
quited affection, the cruelty, the unfaithful- 
ness, or the intemperance of her husband. 
Here, is a pious and anxious parent, weeping 
in anguish over a thankless, profligate, irre- 
claimable child. Or, sad and unnatural re- 
verse, because it violates the order of nature, 
there, is a conscientious, dutiful child, put to 
shame and confusion by the unworthiness of 
a parent. These are pangs, only the sharp- 
er, because they are secret ; in which, as the 
grief may not be uttered, it cannot ask for 
solace* To whom, indeed, but to God him- 
self, can we look for consolation, when the 
choicest gifts of his goodness* all, which 
was designed for blessing, and joy, and hope, 
become the occasion of our deep humilia- 
tion or unutterable distress. It is then, 
surely* if ever, we must say, 4 My soul, wait 
thou only upon God. My expectation is 
from Him.' 

We must leave to experience, or rather, 
we will hope, only to imagination or sympa- 
thy, a nearer view of these appalling trials. 
Yet there is one, which has been untouched; 
but through which, the most precious hopes, 
and the fairest prospects of life may be laid 
in ruins. To say nothing, then, of friend 



132 



ships, once fondly cherished, changed to 
rancorous, unrelenting hatred, have you 
known the light of reason extinguished ; the 
finest faculties confounded ; the imagination 
darkened, or presenting only images of des- 
pair ; and all that made a wife, a child, a 
parent, or brother precious, turned to worse 
than uselessness ; to thicker darkness than 
of the valley of the shadow of death ? 
Then, you have known something of the 
sorrows, by which the heart may be over- 
whelmed. 

But you ask, is it permitted to the chris- 
tian to yield to overwhelming grief ? Is 
there not enough in the great truths which 
he professes, at all times, to sustain him 1 
And must there not be a criminal defect 
of faith and hope in yielding thus to 
heart-breaking sorrow 1 True it is, that 
he, whose heart is fixed, trusting in God y 
will never be confounded. No evil tidings, 
no calamities, however appalling, can pre- 
vail over him, who believes in God, and 
who believes also in Christ. Amidst the 
most disastrous reverses in his person, his 
possessions, or friendships, his eye of faith 
will be on Him, who can sustain him ; and 
his language, and the feeling of his whole 
soul will be, 8 God is my refuge ; a very 



133 



present help in the day of trouble. There- 
fore will I not fear, though the earth be re- 
moved.' Nay* he will even say, with the 
royal sufferer, ' Though he slay me, yet will 
I trust in Him.' 

But in inquiring, how far a state of dejec- 
tion can ever be compatible with the submis- 
sion, that, under every circumstance, be- 
comes the christian, we must allow, not only 
for the general infirmities of our nature, but 
for the particular diversities of natural tem- 
perament. Some, by original constitution, 
by early discipline, and the course of their 
lives, inuring them to sorrow, can look on 
all adversity with a steady eye. Their 
strength is as the strength of brass ; and 
they would regard the tenderness of grief, 
as an unmanly weakness. Such persons, 
even without the aid of religion, are able to 
endure severe calamities with a firmness, 
that minds, more susceptible, but more also 
under the influence of piety, would, with the 
utmost difficulty sustain. But with me, it is 
scarcely a question, whether such a temper- 
ament be desirable. — Who would be willing 
to sacrifice to the pride of philosophy, or to 
1 a monstrous perfection,' the best and ten- 



derest feelings of the heart, which are the 
handmaids of virtue ; which unite us with 



13 



134 



the angels of mercy ; with the spirits of the 
good ; with our compassionate Saviour, who 
gave himself for us ; and with the God, 
who is love. Stoicism, or hardness of heart, 
is no part of the christian. It is not the 
soil, in which christian graces can flourish. 
The religion of Christ is eminently the re- 
ligion of the heart. It cherishes and im- 
proves the finest sensibilities of the soul. 
In the example of its divine author, who 
himself was c grieved ;' was 1 troubled in 
spirit ;' who wept at the grave of his friend 
and in the prospect of the ruin of Jerusa- 
lem, we learn, that we may weep. We see 
at once the sensibility, which his religion 
permits, and the consolation, which faith in 
his religion opens to us. He tells us that 
we may sorrow ; only not as those who are 
without hope. We may grieve ; but we 
must not murmur. Nay, like his own apos- 
tles, we may be cast down, but not in des- 
pair ; mourn before God, but never charge 
him foolishly. — The gospel teaches us to 
find our solace, not in a proud stoicism, nor 
a vain philosophy, that can never purify 
the heart ; not by doing violence to a nature, 
which God has touched to the finest issues, 
or opposing his Providence, which is love ; 
not by resolving his kind and wise appoint- 



135 



ments into an irresistible fate ; nor drowning 
the grief, which heaven designed to sanctify 
and exalt, in the cares or the follies of life. 
The christian's remedy for sorrow is very 
different from all this. He knows, that the 
Lord God omnipotent reigneth ; that all 
things shall work together for good to them 
that love him ; that even calamity itself 
shall yield peaceful fruits. Therefore, when 
his heart is overwhelmed, he goes, as did 
the Saviour, in whom he trusts, ' to the Rock, 
higher than he. 5 There he finds his refuge 
and defence. He finds a wisdom, that can- 
not err; a goodness, which no neglect, in- 
gratitude, or sin, can change ; a compassion 
and faithfulness, which, like the everlasting 
hills, cannot be moved. 

F. P, 

April 10, 1830, 



£j)e Contemplation of Mature a Source of 
Consolation, 



Behold the fovvla of the air ; for they sow not, neither do they 
reap, nor gather into barns ; yet your heavenly Father feedeth 
them. Are ye not much better than they ? — Jesus Christ. 

The most effectual and permanent source 
of consolation, under any afflictive event, is, 
doubtless, the conviction that all events are 
wisely ordered by a controlling Providence. 
How, then, is such a conviction to be ac- 
quired ? Arguments, strong and good ones, 
calculated to impress it on the mind with an 
indelible stamp, are to be found in a wide 
range of true christian divinity ; for the 
ways of God to man have been justified by 
the wisest and greatest among the sons of 
men. Let those, whose feelings, habits or 
engagements will permit them to put their 
faculties upon a course of sustained exercise, 
study these arguments, and I entertain no 
fear of the result. I believe, that as the in- 
vestigation is pursued, conviction will grow 
up and strengthen, and bear the fruits of 
comfort, submission, and peace. 



137 



Yet there is one short and perfectly sim- 
ple train of thought, which is as satisfactory 
on this subject as the most laboured process 
of reasoning. For my own part, at least, I 
need but a single reflection to silence every 
doubt, and dissipate every fear. I look 
abroad on the works of the Almighty. 
There is not a single object on which I turn 
m y e y e > which does not display a wisdom 
and skill, which fill me with admiration and 
wonder. From the dew-drop, which trem- 
bles and glitters on the leaf, to the world 
which rolls and shines in space, all is ad- 
mirable, and all is wonderful. In senseless 
matter, and in living things ; in secret pow- 
ers and visible agencies ; in motion, attrac- 
tion and rest ; in growth and decay ; in life 
and in death, there is an arrangement and a 
certainty, which inspire me with confidence, 
and a depth of knowledge, which is past my 
finding out. And what am I, that I should 
question the originating and guiding intelli- 
gence of a system like this ? Can the skill, 
which modelled so many forms of beauty 
and magnificence, ever be mistaken, or ex- 
hausted ? Can the wisdom and the power, 
which suspended vast and countless worlds 
in infinitude, which preserve their admirable 
arrangement, and in all their paths and mo- 
13* 



138 



tions keep them from the slightest interfer- 
ence with each other, fail to adjust, in the 
best manner, the affairs of one small spot, 
in which I, and a few fellow mortals dwell 
together ? I ask myself this simple ques- 
tion, — Can the wisdom of nature's God 
ever judge unwisely 1 It is entirely and ab- 
solutely impossible. 

And therefore, if there were no other in- 
ducements to the love, contemplation and 
study of nature, than the religious convic- 
tions, which they tend to form, and the sat- 
isfactory evidences, which they furnish, of a 
benign and careful Providence, surely these 
would be amply sufficient. There is a con- 
stancy, and calmness, and lasting beauty 
and majesty in the forms and operations 
which are all around us, which tell of a 
hand that never tires, and an eye that never 
sleeps. A consolation is expressed in their 
settled serenity, steadiness and obedience, 
which argument and eloquence may attempt 
in vain to afford, and to which we may se- 
curely resort for comfort, when other sources 
have failed us. This fountain is ever fresh, 
ever flowing, and ever full. The tide of our 
fortunes, and the hearts of men may change ; 
but nature remains the same. Calamities 
may overtake us ; disappointments may blight 



139 



our most cherished hopes ; we may be griev- 
ed, wronged, depressed, wearied with the 
world, and wearied with ourselves ; and yet, 
the day will glow with the same brightness ; 
the night will return with her unaltered train 
of splendour ; and the continued order and 
tranquillity of creation will convey to our 
hearts the assuring intelligence, that all is 
well. 

Yes, all is well in the course of the uni- 
verse ; in the dispensations of Providence ; 
in the ways of our heavenly Father. If we 
will acquiesce, and be instructed, all will be 
well, too, with us. Nothing but our own 
pride, or waywardness, or dullness, stands 
between these salutary operations and our- 
selves. Let us submit, and obey, and love ; 
let us co-operate with the great Disposer ; 
let us go along with him in his paths, confid- 
ingly and humbly ; and all will be well, both 
without and within us ; completely and for- 
ever well. 

F. W. P. G. 

April 15th, 1830. 



CSvatttutre amHrst .Sorrotos. 



Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in 
the vine ; though the labour of the olive should fail, and the 
fields should yield no meat ; yet I will rejoice in the Lord 3 I 
will joy in the God of my salvation. 

It is essential to true devotion, that we 
cherish such views of the divine character as 
shall inspire, not submission only, but reli- 
gious joy, under every circumstance of life. 
Joy, is 6 a delight of the mind,' arising from 
the possession, or the near prospect of good. 
Gratitude is a thankful sense of benefits re- 
ceived, disposing to proportionate returns. 
But both our religious joy and gratitude are 
too limited in their objects and extent. There 
is apt to be something selfish and mercenary 
in their nature. We confine them to the 
day of our prosperity ; when our blessings 
are many; our hopes are cheering; and, as 
it is expressed by the patriarch, when the 
candle of the Lord is shining around us. 
But have we not reason to fear, that these 
emotions are little better than the gaiety of 



141 



animal spirits ? For they are scattered with 
the first blast of adversity, and changed to 
dejection and distrust. Now it belongs to 
the true child of God, under every circum- 
stance, whether of blessing or affliction, 
amidst the overflowings of divine bounty, 
and the want of all outward comforts, to re- 
joice in the Lord, and to joy in the God of 
his salvation. 

To the worldly mind, who can discern no 
good, and therefore no cause for gratitude, 
except in present enjoyments, this sentiment 
may appear extravagant or absurd. Do you 
call upon me to rejoice in adversity, when 
my blessings and my hopes are taken from 
me ? What is this but mad enthusiasm, 
which affects to find pleasure in fasts and 
mortifications, in painful vigils and self-in- 
flictions ; or the insensibility of the stoic, 
who pretends, that suffering is but a name ; 
or, perhaps, it is no better than the proud 
defiance of the savage, who can smile at the 
worst tortures his conqueror can inflict, and 
sing his war-song amidst the agonies of 
death 1 

But the sentiment, I would recommend, 
has no alliance with all this. It is ground- 
ed on a pure love of God ; on just views of 
human life; and on a firm faith of the life to 



142 



come, which can find causes for gratitude, 
notwithstanding the loss of earthly good. 

1. Religious joy, such as the prophet de- 
clares he could feel amidst famine, desola- 
tion, and all calamity, rests on God for its 
object. It is not dependant, for its existence 
or degree, upon outward circumstances. It 
fixes the mind, not so much on the benefit 
received, as on the source, whence it flows. 
The gratitude, therefore, with which it is 
accompanied, or rather, of which it is an 
essential part, depends not on the value of 
the gift, but on the infinite grace of the 
Giver. As the faithful subject receives with 
thankfulness the slightest favour, even a com- 
placent look, from an honoured sovereign ; so 
will the devoted child of God regard the 
most common gift as coming from his boun- 
teous hand. In the same manner, we do not 
estimate the tokens received from a cherish- 
ed friend, by any sordid calculations of their 
value, but simply as the pledges of an affec- 
tion, in which we rejoice ; which, whether 
bestowed or not, still yield us pleasure in 
the contemplation of his virtues, and in the, 
hope of possessing his regard. By inferior 
comparisons like these, we may learn some- 
thing of the foundations of the christian's 
joy in God. It is not so much, I repeat, in 



143 



his benefits, as in his infinite perfections ; 
joy in his immutable nature ; in his almighty 
power ; in his unerring wisdom ; in his spot- 
less holiness, and impartial justice ; his ex- 
haustless goodness ; his paternal love. So 
that amidst all change ; the disappointment 
of his earthly hopes ; the loss of all temporal 
good; the 'first good, the first fair,' re- 
mains ; and he can say, the Lord liveth, and 
blessed be my Rock ; and exalted be the God 
of my salvation. 

2. In the great principle of faith, and es- 
pecially in the prospects of the religion 
which he has received from Jesus Christ, the 
christian possesses also an unfailing source 
of joy. In this blessed religion he reads the 
promises of pardon and peace with God, and 
is assured of the supply of all his spiritual 
wants. He is instructed by it of the vanity 
of this life ; of the certainty and reality of 
the life to come. And it is enough to sus- 
tain him in all his griefs, that beyond the 
darkness and the shadows of the present, he 
shall find a celestial home ; that there awaits 
him a glorious immortality, for which his 
'light afflictions,' shall but have served to 
prepare him. 

3. The state of mind, to which the loss of 
earthly blessings, when faithfully improved, 



144 



conduces, is a third source of religious joy, 
and a just cause for gratitude to God. 6 Be- 
fore I was afflicted,' said David, 4 1 went 
astray ; but now I have kept thy word.' And 
in the salutary lessons, which his adversity 
had taught hirn, he adds, 4 It is good for me 
that I have been afflicted, that I might learn 
thy statutes.' Had he enjoyed uninterrupt- 
ed prosperity, he might have departed yet 
further from God. At least, he might never 
have attained to that near communion with 
Him, through which he has become to all 
ages an example of piety. The experience 
of the royal Psalmist is the experience of 
multitudes. Adversity calls us home. It 
leads us from the creature to the Creator. 
In acquainting us with Him, it gives us 
peace. It invites to prayer ; and thus opens 
an inexhaustible resource of instruction, of 
consolation, and hope. It exposes our fal- 
lacious dependance on the world ; and fixes 
our hearts there, where only true joy is to 
be found. Ask of the suffering christian, 
and, I doubt not, he can tell you, that he has 
had reason to bless the hours of his sorrow. 
Nay, that when to the earthly eye, every 
thing seemed most calamitous, and no pros- 
pects opening from the world to gladden 
him, he has yet enjoyed in the submission of 



145 



his soul to God; in the conviction he has 
derived of the reality and the value of his 
faith ; in the peace, that comes with prayer ; 
in the spirituality of his frame ; in his invigo- 
rated resolution ; in the serenity of his con- 
science ; and above all, in the visitations of 
God's spirit, 6 whose entrance giveth light,' 
more pure, more heartfelt pleasure, than 
the world with all its satisfactions had ever 
yielded him. Has he not reason then to joy 
in God 7 

4. There is a pleasure, also, to the good 
man, amidst his own griefs, derived from the 
happiness of others. His satisfactions of 
benevolence are independent of any selfish 
regard to his own condition ; and he does 
not lose them, even though he loses the pow- 
er of bestowing. Though his own fig-tree 
may not blossom, and his own fields may 
yield no meat, yet he will be glad, if God 
has blessed his neighbor with a plenteous 
harvest. With the disinterested love, which 
the Saviour has taught him, he will be pleas- 
ed to witness good indulged to others, which 
has been denied to himself. Instead of 
yielding to envy, or ill will, he will derive a 
solace to his own sufferings, from the thought, 
that so many are exempted. He will con- 
sider himself but as one of a countless fam- 
14 



146 



ily, and God as the universal Father, the 
constant Friend, the bounteous Benefactor of 
mankind. Nor will he suffer the sense of 
his own privations to diminish his gratifica- 
tion in surveying the vast stores of comfort 
and happiness, provided for his fellow crea- 
tures. So far, indeed, from hardening his 
heart, his sorrows will dispose him to open 
it the wider, and to make more tender and 
more effectual all his sympathies with others. 
Nor can this be considered as an extrava- 
gance, which only the enthusiast can feel. 
It is but an imperfect imitation of him, who 
pleased not himself, who took upon him our 
infirmities, and became poor, that we might 
be rich. 

5. Lastly, the true child of God, under 
present troubles, will find a devout pleasure 
in surveying his past experiences of divine 
mercy. He will recall with gratitude, 6 the 
days when God preserved him. As he was 
in the day of his youth, when the secret of 
the Most High was upon his tabernacle ; 
when his glory was fresh in him, and the 
rock poured him out rivers of oil.' Or, if 
he has never known that fullness of honour 
and prosperity, which this fine imagery 
would seem to imply, he can at least remem- 
ber many expressions of the divine good- 



147 



ness. If he is now in want, he will not for- 
get, how long and how graciously his wants 
were supplied ; nor if now in sickness, how 
many months and years of health had been 
permitted him. If it now be to him the 
night of bereavement, and lover and friend 
are put far from him, he will yet give thanks, 
that his friends were spared so long. 4 Sweet, 
also, will be the memory of God's grace.' 
The christian, in his deepest affliction, will 
recall with a sacred pleasure all his expe- 
rience of the divine presence to his soul ; all 
the consolation he has found in sorrow ; all 
the strength imparted in temptation ; and in 
the new energy supplied to his faith, in the 
encouragement of christian sympathy, and 
the various offices of friendship, he will de- 
light to acknowledge the mercy, which is 
mingled with judgment, and which has fol- 
lowed him all his days. 

We have spoken of the causes of grati- 
tude, which remain after the loss of all earthly 
good, and which are found in God and reli- 
gion alone. But it is seldom indeed, that 
any of his children are left desolate. Amidst 
the most complicated privations, how many 
blessings are yet untouched ! If health be 
taken, reason is left. If affluence, or even 
competence, be denied, enough for necessity 



148 



is granted. If bereaved of one friend, how 
many others are spared ! Or if that friend 
was the near and the dear, in whom we had 
fondly trusted, who was even to us as our 
own selves, have we no cause for thankful- 
ness, that such a friend was lent, and so long 
continued ? Have we never found, too, that 
when one source of happiness has been 
closed, it was but to open another? What 
though, a single hope has been disappointed, 
how many others have been satisfied ; so that 
at the very moment we are weeping over 
one calamity, God's bounteous hand is pour- 
ing upon us unnumbered blessings. And 
are there no comforts, if we may not call 
them pleasures, peculiar to a state of sor- 
row 1 Is it not God's merciful design in ap- 
pointing it, to disengage us for a season from 
the tumults and passions of the world, and 
to give us his own peace, such as the world 
never gives 1 Does not suffering create for 
us, as it were, new sympathies, and show to 
us, what before we might have distrusted, the 
faithfulness, as well as efficacy of christian 
friendship 1 And even though it should force 
upon us some painful remembrances of our- 
selves, yet in the severity of self-examina- 
tion ; in the tenderness of contrition, and the 
reviving hopes of virtue, there is an holy 



149 



calm of the spirit, the peace of God, which 
passeth understanding. 

How well then, is fulfilled to the christian, 
that promise of his Lord : ' Your hearts 
shall rejoice ; and jour joy shall no man take 
from you !' In every thing he gives thanks ; 
for he can find occasions for gratitude in all. 
He praises God for his mercies. He can 
praise him also for his judgments. And 
though every earthly comfort be taken, he 
can still praise him for the hope of heaven ; 
for the gift of Christ Jesus. He can 'praise 
him for himself alone. 5 * 

F. P. 

* The reader may find an eloquent illustration of this, and of 
some kindred topics, in the devotional discourses of Newcome 
Cappe ; and they, who are familiar with Mrs Barbauld's hymns, 
will hardly fail to recall in this connexion, her beautiful version 
of the words of the Prophet, which stand at the head of this 
essay. 



14* 



STJe Jftiflueuce of tje HeaTi on tje 3Ltbttifl. 



No man dieth to himself. 

No one can be taken away without leav- 
ing a perceptible void. It may not, indeed, 
be observed by us, and yet to the fond eye of 
affection, it seems a chasm, that nothing can 
fill. The death of almost every individual 
is a loss ; generally a serious loss to his fam- 
ily and to the circle in which he moved ; of- 
tentimes an important loss to society. So 
variously and so closely are we connected 
by the bonds of kindred and intimacy, that 
not one link in the chain can be broken 
without loosening and weakening the whole. 

6 No man dieth to himself.' He dieth to 
the living ; and to them this is the saddest 
circumstance of all. The places that once 
knew him, now know him no more. In the 
church we look for the well known features 
of our friend ; but he is not there ; the wi- 
dow and the fatherless sit alone in the deso- 
late pew ; or the countenances of strangers 



151 



return our inquiring gaze. The eye seeks 
for him in the family ; but his seat is vacant 
at the hearth and at the board. The door 
opens ; but the expected and familiar form 
does not enter. We seek in vain for those 
placid features which were wont to salute us 
with the cheering smile of a benignant sym- 
pathy. We listen in vain to catch the mild 
accents of that sweet voice, which once 
spoke with so much wisdom and tenderness 
of human virtue and of human wo. It is 
mute, that tongue which formerly poured 
consolation into the troubled heart. We 
miss those little offices of kindness, those, 
little expressions of regard, which with him 
were the natural promptings of a feeling 
mind, and which were soothing and grateful 
to our souls. Yes, when a friend is taken 
away, we feel that he dieth not to himself 
alone ; we feel that to us chiefly he dieth. 
There is a vacancy in our hearts, which we 
know not how to fill. We look around, but 
we can discern nothing capable or worthy 
to occupy that sacred place. Every thing 
human and earthly appears to us inadequate* 
disproportionate, and inferior. 

There is another and a very important 
sense in which the declaration is true. 6 No 



152 



man dieth to himself ; ' for his influence still 
remains with the living. His memory sur- 
vives, and is fondly and sacredly cherished. 
A busy fancy is wont to summon up the sha- 
dowy forms of departed loveliness and good- 
ness, and to present to our admiring view the 
well known features and movements of those 
who once walked with us in the crowded 
paths of life. It is a natural feeling which 
invests every thing that belonged to them 
with a solemn interest, and consecrates the 
very ground on which they trod. 

6 No man dieth to himself ; ' for his ex- 
ample is left behind for the imitation of the 
survivors ; and they often derive a melan- 
choly pleasure from reflecting on his virtues ; 
and recounting his good deeds. The right- 
eous man, though dead, continues to exert a 
power over those who knew and loved him. 
His character is not interred with his bones, 
but is embalmed in a grateful remembrance. 
It still exists, an abiding monument, a speak- 
ing witness of his worth. With his name 
are associated the holiest thoughts and the 
most delightful recollections. His friends 
honor and love virtue the more, from having 
seen it exemplified and illustrated in the life 
of one whom they venerated and esteemed. 
They cannot cease to admire and love it, so 



153 



long as his hallowed image is present to 
their minds. His superior worth is a con- 
stant monitor, inciting them onwards, and 
chiding their indifference and delay. Yes, 
in leaving behind him such a character, the 
good man bequeaths the most precious lega- 
cy. He shows us, by his example, to what 
a high measure of moral and spiritual excel- 
lence our nature is capable of attaining. 
He proves to us that the character which 
Christianity requires us to form, is not an 
imaginary nor an impracticable thing. We 
have need of such instances of purity and 
goodness, to instruct and encourage us. We 
should bless God for affording us the oppor- 
tunity to witness such manifestations of the 
power of religious principle, and the loveli- 
ness of christian virtue. 

1 know well, 

That they who love their friends most tenderly, 
Still bear their loss the best. There is in love 
A consecrated power, that seems to wake 
Only at the touch of death, from its repose 
In the profoundest depths of thinking souls, 
Superior to the outward signs of grief, 
Sighing, or tears. When these have passed away, 
It rises calm and beautiful, like the moon, 
Saddening the solemn night, yet with that sadness 
Mingling the breath of undisturbed peace. 

Whilst we thus dwell with a mournful 
pleasure on the memory of those who once 



154 



walked with us on earth, we should ask our- 
selves, seriously and candidly, what there 
was in their circumstances and characters, 
that now so endears them to our remem- 
brance ? "What was there in their natural 
or acquired endowments, that commanded 
our reverence, and conciliated our esteem 
and love ? Was it their fortune 1 O ! no ; 
though it may have been princely ; for there 
were thousands whose treasures exceeded 
theirs, yet who never extorted from us a sin- 
gle expression of admiration or affection. 
It surely was not the regularity of their 
features, the symmetry of their forms, the 
grace of their carriage, or the enchantment 
of their address ; for however engaging 
these exterior qualities may be ; whatever 
charm they may throw around the person of 
their possessor ; however much they may 
recommend the living man to the society of 
the refined and gentle ; yet surely it is not 
for the possession of such qualities merely, 
that the memory of the departed is cher- 
ished. It is not their intellect chiefly which 
is embalmed in your hearts, though that may 
have been vigorous and fertile ; for you 
have witnessed many a brighter genius ; you 
have mourned over the perversion of talents 
far more splendid than theirs. Nor was it 



155 



solely the tie of blood or brotherhood thai 
bound you to them ; for affection does not 
always rise and fall with the degrees of re- 
lationship ; and you know that some of your 
fondest remembrances are of those who 
could put in no such claim to your regard. 

What was it, then, which so enchained 
you to them, which death has not been able 
to destroy, and to which you now point as 
the only enduring part of their nature 1 It 
was their pure spirits, their unspotted souls, 
their sincere hearts, their kind feelings, their 
amiable dispositions, their excellent virtues. 
These are the qualities of departed worth, 
on which friendship loves to dwell ; for she 
knows that these are the qualities which are 
imperishable, recommend their possessor to 
God, and fit him for heaven. Moral purity, 
spiritual excellence ; this is the object of our 
being, the perfection of our nature, the only 
thing worth striving for, the only thing about 
us that is truly ours, the only thing that is 
immortal. Your wealth, your fame, your 
learning, your beauty, what are they but the 
mere accidents of your earthly existence ; 
the mortal integuments, which you must cast 
off before you can enter the world of spirits ? 

Let us then expend our thoughts and lav- 
ish our labours in ennobling and purifying 



156 



the incorruptible part of our nature. Let 
us be incited to this by the example of those 
excellent ones whose characters we revere, 
and whose memory is precious to our souls. 
Can you not fancy that, from the regions of 
peace and blessedness, those pure and happy 
spirits are now looking down upon you, and 
watching, with the eye of friendly solicitude, 
the course in which you have at length re- 
solved to go — whether it be through the 
wide gate, and along the broad path that 
leadeth far from their dwelling place, far 
from light and peace and joy, or whether it 
be through the straight gate and along the 
narrow way which leadeth unto life, up to 
the throne of God. That child, which was 
cut down prematurely in its infant simplicity 
and innocence, may now be watching with 
filial piety the steps of its earthly parent ; 
and the dearest hope of its heart perhaps is, 
that it may be the first to welcome you to 
those abodes of purity and bliss. What a 
rich consolation does this thought inspire ! 
What a powerful incentive does it supply to 
the heart of the tender and affectionate 
christian to walk in the ways of truth and 
righteousness ! O let us not, by our disobe- 
dience and irreligion, forfeit the hope of a 
blissful re-union with those dear Mends who 



157 



have departed this life in peace — in peace 
with the world, with their own consciences, 
and with their God. 

O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 
In living virtue ; that, when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our frame consume, 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 

Thus should we endeavour to improve the 
troubles that are brought upon us. We 
should permit them to exert their natural in- 
fluence on our hearts and characters. Let 
us open our bosoms to the teachings of af- 
fliction ; for affliction is the best school of 
virtue. It humbles the proud spirit, and 
softens the hard heart. It prepares the 
mind for the reception of good influences, 
and the cultivation of religious principle and 
sentiment. Upon the heart of the prosper- 
ous, the voice of religion often makes no 
more impression than the light dew-drop 
upon the marble pavement. But when the 
same heart is intenerated by grief, the whis- 
per of religious consolation is heard with 
joy, and may have a deep and abiding 
power. 

Would to heaven that the sanctifying in- 
fluences of bereavement were as deep and 
abiding as they are vivid and poignant : that 

15 




158 



the emotions and sentiments it awakens, 
were not as transient as the tear that suffu- 
ses the cheek, or the throb that heaves the 
bosom. Would to heaven, that the good 
feelings and purposes which are excited in 
our minds by the remembrance of the saint- 
ed dead, might be watered by the dews of 
divine grace, and be ripened into the fair 
fruits of piety and holiness. O, that the 
passions, which are now subdued by the pres- 
sure of domestic sorrow, might never again 
be roused into fury by the collisions and ri- 
valries of a turbulent world. O, that the 
heart which now melts at the mere mention 
of those it once loved, might never again be 
hardened by the deceitfulness of sin. 

The posthumous influence of character is 
usually in proportion to the intellectual 
power and the moral worth of the departed ; 
and is more or less extensive, according as 
he was known and appreciated when living. 
To every family, indeed, however humble 
and obscure, the virtues of a deceased mem- 
ber are precious ; and as you enlarge the 
sphere of his intimacy and usefulness, you 
increase the salutary influence which the re- 
membrance of his good deeds is suited to 
exert on the survivors. What a powerful 



159 



motive does this consideration present to a 
devout and holy life. To believe that our 
virtues will live after us ; that our memories 
will be cherished, and our characters be 
operating upon others, long after our bodies 
have mingled with the dust ; this, surely, of 
all the subordinate incitements to well-doing, 
must occupy the first and highest place. It 
is a glorious and animating thought, that we 
may do good, even after death ; and who, 
that is warmed with that sincere and ardent 
love for his brethren which Christianity in- 
culcates, will not feel desirous of speaking 
to them, even from the tomb, and of urging 
them onwards in the way of wisdom, peace 
and salvation 1 

A. Y. 



2Ej)e lEfffcacg of 3keltgtous Consolation, 



Take unto you the armour of God, that you may he able to 
stand in the evil day. — St Paul. 

Of all the offices of Christianity, that 
which she assumes in the hour of affliction 
appears to be the least understood. A 
power is ascribed to her over misfortune ; 
but the nature of this power and the manner 
of its exercise are matters about which the 
common notions of men are extremely indis- 
tinct. Religion is sometimes spoken of as if 
it held an enchanter's wand over all the evils 
of our condition. And in fact the general 
idea seems to be that it is alike effectual in 
all cases. But this expectation has been 
disappointed, and instances are frequently 
occurring in which religion appears to pos- 
sess no sort of power, when her gracious 
consolations have no more effect than 'the 
loud sighings of the wind.' Cases of this 
kind have unhappily, but very naturally, 
created strong doubts as to the efficacy of 
religious consolation. Many are disposed 



161 



to deny to religion any ability to assuage 
human grief ; and to rest all their hopes of 
relief, in the season of bereavement, upon 
the course of time and nature. Thus is 
Christianity thrust out of one of the most 
important stations, that her blessed founder 
intended she should occupy. 

Now all this misapprehension arises from 
the neglect of one simple, but most important 
truth. It seems to be wholly forgotten that 
religion has neither any power, nor does it 
aim to have any, except so far as it has be- 
come a deep, habitual, and living sentiment. 
It cannot be too frequently or too deeply im- 
pressed upon our minds, that if only a name 
and profession, Christianity has no influence. 
Where it is known only in word and form, 
it is as powerless as the dead. A stranger 
coming into my dwelling in the moment of 
sorrow, wholly unacquainted with the cir- 
cumstances of my affliction, could not have 
less sympathy with me, or less control over 
my feelings, than religion has upon such an 
occasion, if my heart has never become fa- 
miliar and intimate with it ; if it is not my 
ancient and bosom friend. 

Religion must be infused into the very es- 
sence of the mind. Our fashion of thought 



15* 



162 



and feeling must be formed by it, and our 
whole nature sublimated by its union with 
our best sensibilities. It must be but another 
name for the shape and habit which the spi- 
rit within us has assumed. All this can be 
accomplished only by the most patient and 
gradual efforts, on our part, to render reli- 
gious considerations, a sense of God, and of 
God's unslumbering providence, a just es- 
timate of life and its various objects of pur- 
suit, matters of daily reflection and study. 
Religion must stand by us in our cradles. 
She must take our childhood by the hand, 
and summon all the vicissitudes of life to her 
aid. And then, when we have in this way 
become thoroughly imbued with the truth, 
our feelings regulated, and our whole char- 
acters formed by large and religious modes 
of thought, then no bounds can be set to the 
power of religion over all the changes, no 
matter how sudden, or severe, to which we 
may be exposed. It is an armour, which in- 
cases our whole being, without putting us 
under the least restraint. The fiery darts 
of sin cannot pierce it. They will fall 
quenched and broken at our feet. The 
blows of affliction, fall as heavily as they 



163 



may, will only increase the animation of our 
resistance. We may weep, and our whole 
frames shake under the sense of bereave- 
ment. So much must be pardoned to hu- 
man nature. 

But all our tears are sanctified. They burst 
From our o'ercharged hearts like blessed showers, 
Which leave the skies, they come from, bright and holy. 

The best and most consoling thoughts 
will, by the simple force of habit, come 
thronging into our hearts, and they will find 
our sensibility excited and ready to embrace 
them as so many messengers from the God 
of all consolation. And it will be impos- 
sible for us to lose our presence of mind, 
because a perfect understanding of our frail- 
ty and exposure is always present in our 
thoughts. 

Let this now be remembered. Let it be 
established as a first truth with us, that if re- 
ligion is to comfort us in affliction ; if she is 
to give us aid in any time of peril, she must 
have had long and supreme command over 
our hearts. She must be at home in our bo- 
soms, and then she diffuses a virtue through 
the whole moral frame, so that affliction can- 



164 



not touch so much as the hem of our gar- 
ments without being sanctified. Then her 
consolation abounds. In one word, it is 
only the religious man, that can be comfort- 
ed by religion. Her language is, 6 1 love 
them who love me.' 

W. H. F. 

Philadelphia, April 30, 1830. 



Mm** mm conform** to ©Ws Wilt 



Should it be according to thy mind ? — Job. 

It may be according to our mind. Ay, 
we may have our will. There is a way to 
make our desires certain of gratification ; 
to make our enterprises all prosper ; our 
plans all succeed ; to bafrle misfortune ; to 
chain down chance and vicissitude ; to abo- 
lish anxiety, and make disappointment un- 
known. Is there not such a way, reader ? 
Are there not voices proclaiming it from 
God's word, from man's reason, from our 
heart's inmost depths ? Would you learn 
this way ? Then listen to these true oracles, 
when they declare the sovereignty of One 
alone ; one designing mind; one controlling 
will, and pronounce the government of the 
universe inconsistent with more than one. 
Every where this will alone prevails. It is 
around us, and within us, ruling ceaselessly 
with unshared, irresistible dominion. This 
will must have sway, and none other can 
ever accomplish its desire, but by harmoni- 



166 



ously coinciding with it. This is the secret. 
Have your will, by moulding it according to 
the will of God. It will then be guided by 
wisdom that has never erred ; and enforced 
by might that never has been baffled, and 
watched over by love that has never failed. 

Otherwise, what do we ? Dissatisfaction 
with the appointments of this higher will is 
an appeal from the tribunal of his wisdom 
to our own weak judgment. All anxiety is 
so much distrust of Him, who knows best in 
every case. All feelings of disappointment 
are the indication of a disposition that, if al- 
lowed full sway, would deny the benignity of 
his rule, and overturn his throne. Knows 
he what he would do, the man of peevish 
discontent, when he so readily complains of 
his lot at every trivial mishap that he per- 
mits to sour and irritate him ? He thinks, it 
may be, that at the worst, he is only spoiling 
his temper and banishing the cheerful smiles 
of his friends. But there is a friend above, 
treated with worse rudeness ; and every pet- 
ulant exclamation that stains the lips, which 
he has touched with life ; every angry oath 
that desecrates the tongue, which he has 
made to praise him, is directed, however un- 
consciously, against his holy will ; and gives 
its little force to the subversion of his em- 



167 



pire ; to the desolating of the universe ; mak- 
ing it fatherless ; destitute of a governing 
Providence. 

And of how much more direct unkindness 
to man may wilfulness unknowingly be 
guilty ! Who can tell the mischief that 
might be done by one rash wish granted 1 
Are we impatient of the almighty Father's 
opposition to our vain and short sighted pro- 
jects ? Rather let us give thanks, that we 
are not allowed to witness the destructive is- 
sues, that would perhaps attend the accom- 
plishment of the selfish scheme. It might 
interrupt the beneficent order of nature. It 
might interfere with the kindest arrange- 
ments of providence. It might, by some of 
its distant consequences, bring death to our- 
selves ; involve in ruin all who are dear to 
us ; spread misery over the world ; destroy 
souls. 

Presume we not, therefore, to intrude 
into the province of the Supreme. Put we 
forth no audacious hand to disturb the com- 
plicated machinery of his work. But let us 
be satisfied his darkest ways are right ; and 
let meek submission prompt ignorant man's 
most becoming prayer, 4 Thy will be done.' 

6 Thy will be done.' Brief, but compre- 
hensive prayer ! Simple as the words of 



163 



Jesus always were ; of import more full and 
solemn than a cathedral's chanted litanies* 
Sublime summary of man's wants ! It asks 
for all things ; all things needful to make 
him blessed. It contains the most copious 
system of duty. It is the most useful body 
of divinity. It teaches piety, and love, and 
trust. It tells of wisdom and goodness and 
power on high. God's will be done. If it 
were done, what would there be wanting on 
earth or in heaven ? For is it not his will 
alone, that makes the spirits of the just re- 
joice in bliss ? And would he not have the 
spirits of all, spirits of the just ? 

How dear should this little petition of Je- 
sus be to all, who long for such peace, as 
the vicissitudes of fortune cannot reach ! 
How often should it be in their hearts ! It 
may be on their lips alone, and they deceive 
themselves, and think the prayer earnest 
from the heart. Look, when overwhelming 
grief has bowed down the mourner's soul. 
The mother has lost her only child, and 
sinks beneath the blow ; prostrate in spirit ; 
hopeless in heart. She mechanically re- 
peats the words of submission, that she has 
caught from those about her, 4 God's will be 
done ; 5 but they, who mark her utter and ef- 
fortless abandonment to wretchedness, may 



169 



see that she is yielding herself up, not to the 
will of God, but to despair. She is resign- 
ed, but resigned blindly to her anguish, not 
to the wise visitation of Him, who chasten- 
eth for good. For then would she hear the 
call to her moral energies ; and the meek 
voice of a patient spirit would respond, 8 it 
is right, it is wise, it is good, that it so 
should be ; while I daily pray, thy will be 
done, let me not murmur that it is done.' 

And so through gather'd clouds she'd move, untouched. 
In silver purity ; and cheering, oft times, 
Their reluctant gloom. 

Reader, disciple of Jesus, does the prayer 
our master has left us never reproach us in 
repeating this clause, as if guilty of mockery 
toward the great searcher of hearts 1 Trace 
that master's footsteps along his thorny path 
from the manger to the cross, and behold he 
sought no where his own will, but the will 
of the Father who sent him. And what 
seek we 1 What is our ruling purpose in 
life 1 To gratify stubborn wilfulness 1 To 
accomplish only our own earth-born schemes 
of personal advancement ? Seek we our 
own will with irreligious, atheistic exclu- 
siveness, never thinking of that other great 
will, which should and must have prece- 
dence ? We do so, if we have not set our • 
16 



170 



selves resolutely to the task of making the 
pleasure of our maker the rule of our life, 
Otherwise, self is the master we instinct- 
ively serve ; and, strange as it may seem, it 
is a harder master than He will prove, 
whose will is only to bless us, if we will let 
him. 

We shall invoke, then* the predominance 
of his will over our hearts, if we are wise. 
We shall strive to enthrone it over every 
private wish. This be our resolution. And 
in order to establish its habitual dominion, 
we shall, in frequent meditation, impress 
upon the mind his claim to undisputed sove- 
reignty. One sun in the heavens ; one will 
in the universe ; a sun whose beams are light 
and life ; a will which pervades all creation 
with love. 

And to the further effect, that its authority 
may rule paramount within us, we shall like- 
wise actively obey this will. Performing its 
practical requisitions, it will be easy to ac- 
quiesce in its passive inflictions* 

And when it awards us a bleeding heart, 
we will not turn away from the kind lesson 
it would teach. We will not rest satisfied 
with the alleviations, which the cold hearted 
philosophy of earth can minister ; but we 
will sound the solemn truth over and over 



171 



again, in the depths of the soul, 4 It is the 
will of God ; it is the will of God ; wise and 
good.' 

And when it crowns us with joy, we shall 
not be thankful alone ; for simple thankful- 
ness is paying deference to our own v^ill ; 
but to gratitude for the gift we shall add com- 
placency in the will of the giver. We shall 
value our happiness more for its origin in 
the skies. It is an expression of our Fa- 
ther's love. 

These few rules observed will make the 
will of God a monarch over our desires and 
sentiments and thoughts. And our reward 
will be great. Peace will they give, not as 
this world giveth. There will be a quiet, 
praising melody, ever singing within our 
spirits. There will be the gladness of gen- 
tle and harmonious affections in our breasts. 
There will be a smile spread over the earth 
and the heavens to our eyes ; and the spirit 
of tranquil trust ever whispering in the 
heart, 4 grieve no more ; fear no more ; your 
Father's will is done.' 

M. J. M, 



& Setter to a jFrtentr utitret tree}) &filtctton. 



My Dear 

Permit a sincere friend to offer you his 
sympathies, and to condole with you in this 
season of deep distress. I would, if possi- 
ble, say something that may assuage the an- 
guish of your grief. Do not, I entreat you, 
refuse to receive consolation, nor sink under 
the burden, which your heavenly Father has 
laid upon you. Do not say, fi my sorrow is 
greater than I can bear/ Pray unto God, 
earnestly, humbly, pray, that he would sus- 
tain you and comfort you ; and doubt not 
that your prayer will be answered. He 
looks upon you with tender compassion and 
love, and waiteth to be gracious unto you. 
6 Acquaint now thyself with him, and be at 
peace.' ' Cast your cares on him, for he 
careth for you.' Yes, 4 as a father pitieth 
his children, so the Lord pitieth them that 
fear him.' Let your affections draw you 
near to him, your best, your all-sufficient, 
your never-failing friend. Let him be the 



173 



object of your supreme affection, and of 
your unbounded trust. 

That friend, who never fails the just, 
Though other friends betray their trust. 

He lias, indeed, grievously afflicted you ; 
1 lover and friend has he put far from you, 
and your acquaintance into darkness ; ' and, 
in deep anguish, you are ready to exclaim : 
1 Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O 
ye my friends, for the hand of God hath 
touched me.' Your friends do indeed pity 
you ; but they are anxious that you should 
do right. Is there no danger, lest you 
should indulge your feelings too far ; and by 
abandoning yourself to despair, should not 
only lose the benefits, which your afflictions 
are designed to produce, but displease that 
righteous and all-perfect Being, who, in his 
mysterious Providence, has seen fit, once 
and again, to disappoint your youthful hopes ? 
Oh, do not, my friend, allow yourself to 
question, for one moment, the rectitude, and 
wisdom, and kindness, — yes, the kindness 
of all his ways. Bow with meekness before 
him ; or, as it is expressed in the words of 
inspiration : 1 Humble thyself under the 
mighty hand of God, and he will exalt thee 
in due time.' 

16* 



174 



I do not ask you not to weep. Religion 
does not require you to lay this restraint upon 
your feelings. Your heart would break, 
should you not weep. Jesus wept ; and his 
example we may safely follow. I am sensi- 
ble, that you have cause to weep ; that your 
grief is very great, almost insupportable. 
But do not shut your heart against the con- 
solations of Christianity. That same com- 
passionate Saviour, who wept at the tomb 
of his friend, and who 4 hath borne our 
griefs, and carried our sorrows,' still lives, 
and his tender heart still feels for us. He 
feels for you, and proffers you his sympathy 
and aid in this hour of darkness. To you, 
those charming words are addressed : 6 Come 
unto me all ye who are weary and heavy 
laden, and I will give you rest.' Do you 
not now feel your need of other supports 
than this world can give 1 Oh, then come 
unto Jesus ; take his yoke upon you and 
learn of him, and you shall find rest to your 
soul. He will teach you how to bear your 
afflictions and how to improve them, so that 
they may be converted into blessings. Yes, 
one of his inspired apostles has said : ' Al- 
though no chastening for the present seem- 
eth to be joyous, but grievous ; nevertheless, 
afterwards it yieldeth the peaceable fruits of 



175 



righteousness to them that are exercised 
thereby.' And he himself has said, c I am 
the resurrection and the life ;' c whosoever 
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet 
shall he live.' e Sorrow not then as those 
who have no hope ; for if we believe,' thus 
the apostle addresses his afflicted friends, 
6 that Jesus died and rose again, even so 
them also, who sleep in Jesus will God bring 
with him.' Think not of your beloved friend 
merely as the cold tenant of the tomb. His 
mortal part, indeed, is there ; but his spirit 
is not there. Dust returneth unto dust, but 
the spirit to God, who gave it. 

Let your thoughts, then, be directed to the 
world of spirits. Set your affections, which 
have clung, perhaps too fondly, to earthly 
objects, on things above, where Christ sitteth 
on the right hand of God. Remember, that 
one thing is needful, and let it be your first, 
your chief concern, to choose and to secure 
that good part, which cannot be taken away 
from you. 

Your affectionate friend, 

J. A. 

June, 1830. 



<£f)e ©atXQers antr (Ecmptatfous of gftbersttfl. 



The sorrow of the world worketh death. — St Paul. 

It is common to speak of the benefits of 
adversity ; of its efficacy to awaken salutary 
thoughts and purposes ; to purify and exalt 
the character. Nor are we, perhaps, saying 
too much, when we ascribe to it some natu- 
ral influence to make us better. At least, 
such we may be assured is the design of 
God in appointing it. Yet is there danger 
on this, as well as on some other topics of 
religion, from unqualified, or extravagant 
statement. It is not true, that adversity al- 
ways, does us good ; or that, of itself, it is a 
spiritual benefit. For this must depend on 
the improvement we make of it. Like every 
other condition of life, it is for our trial ; and 
as long as life itself is probationary, and we 
remain on this side heaven, there are no cir- 
cumstances, in which we can be placed, 
whether of joy or sorrow, which shall be 
free from temptation. As, therefore, in pros- 
perity we are in danger from worldliness 



177 



and presumption, so in our adversity we 
have cause to fear, lest our hearts be over- 
charged with grief ; lest we become distrust- 
ful of the goodness of God, or of the kind- 
ness of men ; and in yielding, as our natural 
temperament may dispose, to dark surmises, 
to melancholy musings, or to absorbing plea- 
sures ; in the hardness of unbelief ; in reck- 
less despair, or the distractions of worldly 
pursuit, we lose the benefit, which God de- 
signed in afflicting us. 

The dangers of adversity vary with the 
natural dispositions of men. There is with 
some a constitutional quietness, by which 
they can meet trouble and joy with equal 
composure ; a composure, indeed, which, 
as the result of discipline and of religious 
principle, is carefully to be cherished ; for 
it is an ingredient of moral greatness. But 
as a temperament, it implies little else than 
mere want of feeling, and may be abso- 
lutely fatal to all improvement of God's 
providence. On the other hand, there are 
those, whose extreme susceptibility, unre- 
strained by religion, would make them, in 
time, the victims of their grief, did not a fe- 
verish impatience of trouble, not less a part 
of their natural temper than their sensibili- 
ty, hurry them into cares and engagements 



178 



and pleasures, that indispose them for all se- 
rious reflection. 

I. In violent grief, as in all extravagance 
of passion, there is danger from re-action. 
As the fervours of religious excitement quick- 
ly subside, so do the excesses of sorrow. And, 
perhaps, in some weariness, or even disgust 
at our own extravagance, we seek relief 
from objects altogether worldly, and rashly 
expose ourselves to the temptations of life, 
in precisely that state of excitement, which, 
whether it come from joy or grief ; from the 
ardour of devotion, or of mere animal pas- 
sion, all observation and experience, and 
all reasoning from the well known princi- 
ples of our nature, show to be equally dan- 
gerous. What our Saviour, therefore, by a 
remarkable similitude of an evil spirit going 
out of a man, but returning to him with re- 
cruited strength, and in company with others 
worse than himself, applies to the slave of 
evil habits, who, having resolved to break 
them off, returns to them again, may prove 
true of the man of adversity. His last state 
shall be worse than the first. His affliction 
shall leave him worse than it found him. 
Because it has only excited, without purify- 
ing his affections, and the means, which God 



179 



appointed for his benefit, he perverts to new 
occasions of sin. 

Here is one, for example, who had known 
prosperity, but is now suffering reverses in 
his condition. His wealth, in which he 
trusted, is gone. For fulness he finds straits ; 
and instead of a cheerful charity and a gen- 
erous hospitality, which it was his delight to 
exercise, he is constrained to eat the bread 
of carefulness, and to make his family the 
sharers of his multiplied privations. Now 
who will doubt, that such adversity brings 
with it temptation 7 And who, that has 
marked its frequent consequences, will not 
count him happy and worthy of praise, 
whose perplexities have not hardened, or 
embittered his spirit ; have not robbed him 
of his kind affections, which he can no 
longer indulge but in good wishes ; or, yet 
more unhappily, if they have not prevailed 
to corrupt his habits, and to add him to the 
number, whom reverses of condition and 
lowness of spirits have sunk to the madness 
of intemperance. 

2. Nor are troubles of another description 
without their dangers. Bereavement of 
friends, as well as loss of property, may be- 
come our tempter. It would seem, that in 
the very nature of this sorrow there is much 



180 



to improve the heart. Yet such is our 
proneness to pervert good to occasions of 
evil, that the very sacredness and tender- 
ness of the affection shall become a snare. 
When the husband and the father is bereav- 
ed of the partner of his life ; of her, not 
only to whom his best earthly affection was 
given, but on whom he reposed with a 
boundless confidence for the happiness of 
his house, and the care of his children ; when 
such a lover and friend, his trusty counsellor 
and the 4 help meet ' for him, is removed ; 
and his dwelling, once so cheerful, is made 
sad ; and cares, of which he had known 
nothing, because they were wisely and faith- 
fully sustained by another, he now finds de- 
volving upon himself; he is in danger, un- 
less he take to himself the armour of God, 
the defence of high and holy principle, first, 
from unworthy dejection, and then, sooner, 
alas ! than he could believe, or imagine, 
from the worst temptations of the world. 
And the man, who, before death entered his 
chambers, was safe and happy in the con- 
sciousness of virtue, and the endearments of 
domestic love, shall, even while his friends 
are mourning with him the bitterness of his 
bereavement, and the desolations of his house, 
have yielded himself to the allurements, and 
even corruptions of the world. 



181 



3. Is there no danger, also, lest adversity- 
take from us our filial confidence in God, 
tempting us to dark views of his providence, 
and to distrust, envy, or malice against our 
fellow-men ? This, w r e believe, is a danger 
peculiarly incident to reverses of fortune and 
to the perplexities, to which we have advert- 
ed, in worldly affairs. Some afflictions men 
can easily endure. Sickness, in their own 
persons, or of their dearest friends, and be- 
reavement, even in its more aggravated forms, 
they are able to sustain, because such ap- 
pointments they refer immediately to God, 
and in the spirit of submission they sum- 
mon religion to their aid. But losses of 
property, which they think themselves justi- 
fied in ascribing to others, to negligence, 
improvidence, or fraud, or, at best, to secon- 
dary causes within, as they imagine, human 
control, involving, too, a total change in their 
comforts and prospects, the effects of which 
they suffer with every hour, they are less 
careful to improve. They do not here ac- 
knowledge the operation of the Lord, nor 
consider, that this also is the work of his 
hand. They will not remember, that chan- 
ges in the aspects of the world, affecting the 
success of enterprize, the vicissitudes of 
commerce ; nay, that the wickedness of 
17 



182 



men, are ministers of God's judgments, no 
less than the stormy wind and tempest, the 
desolating flame, or the earthquake, that ful- 
fil his word. They find others exempted, 
and even prosperous, who entered upon life 
with inferior advantages, or were pursuing 
the same career with themselves. And as 
their own resources are diminished, and their 
social gratifications impaired ; perhaps, too, 
as they may be ready in their dejected spir- 
its to imagine, their influence or respecta- 
bility affected, they yield themselves* not to 
discontent only, but to envy and ill-will. 
They are troubled, not only at their own ad- 
versity, but at the prosperity of others. 
They murmur against God, and grow angry 
with their fellow men. So that of all the 
inflictions of divine providence, there is 
reason to fear, that none so often fail of their 
gracious design ; none are so seldom fol- 
lowed by the peaceful fruits of righteous- 
ness, as are those, which affect the outward 
estate, reducing the affluent and honourable 
to obscurity or straits. Who, that has wit- 
nessed, will not deprecate the ravages, which 
adversity in this form may make upon the 
tempers and habits of men ? 

4. From a distempered fancy, unduly 
magnifying our sorrows, disposing us to 



183 



think, that there is something peculiar in our 
lot, and a more than common bitterness in- 
fused into our cup, we find another source 
of danger. The power of imagination on 
this, as on other subjects, is almost bound- 
less. There is, also, a selfishness in grief, 
which, fixing attention exclusively upon our 
own condition, easily admits the delusion, 
that we of all others are the most misera- 
ble. This is specially true of troubles, 
that are of our own creation ; the fruits 
of an indulged and distempered fancy, and 
which, having no limits in reality, seem to 
justify an unlimited grief. But we extend 
the delusion to those inflictions of heaven, 
which are of most frequent occurrence, and 
which we never consider unusual but when 
appointed to ourselves. And, then, in soli- 
tude and silence, in vain musings and thank- 
less discontent, we aggravate our calamity, 
and complain as if that had happened to us, 
which is uncommon to men. We forget, how 
great and how bitter may be the sorrows of 
others ; how much heaviness of heart may 
hide itself under a cheerful countenance ; and 
that others may not be less troubled, but only 
better disciplined than we. We might re- 
member, too, how often we ourselves appear 
to our friends more cheerful than we are ; 



184 



who in their turn are thinking far less of our 
afflictions than of their own. And even ad- 
mitting, that at the present moment they are 
at ease and prosperity, who can tell through 
what trials they may have passed ; by how 
many painful steps of care, perplexity, or 
bereaved affection, they have reached to 
their present enjoyments. While you are 
envying their condition, how know you, but 
they are pining in secret grief, or are tor- 
mented with unutterable pains ? You think 
them happy in the multitude of their friends, 
in the health and beauty and promise of 
their children. But you forget the days of 
mourning they have numbered, or the friends 
and children they have buried in the grave. 
Nay, at the very moment, when all to the 
stranger's eye is bright and joyous around 
them, and the cup of their prosperity seems 
running over, they may be grieving, in the 
anguish of their spirit, over disappointed 
affections, upbraiding consciences, or blast- 
ed hopes, for the treachery of a much loved 
friend, or the profligacy of a darling child. 
Yes. It may not be doubted, that many a 
tear is shed in secret by those, whom men 
call happy, and many a sleepless night en- 
dured, of which the world takes no account. 
Not seldom does a selfish world ignorantly 



185 



waste its envy, where an all-seeing, and 
an all-pitying God looks down with com- 
passion. 

In truth, we can never judge rightly of 
each other's condition. There is a fallacy 
in appearances, which no sagacity can de- 
tect. And if we know so little of the present 
griefs of others, still less can we foresee 
what troubles are to come upon them. We 
cannot imagine, what destiny awaits them ; 
how soon their brightest prospects may be 
darkened, and their sun go down, while it is 
yet day. Those reverses, which it pleased 
Jehovah to denounce against an unthankful 
people, are sometimes visited upon the dwel- 
lings of the most prosperous. 1 1 will turn 
your feasts into mourning, and all your 
songs into lamentations. I will darken your 
dwelling in the clear day ; and will make 
the end thereof as a bitter day.' Nor are 
such calamities more suited to repress the 
presumption of the secure, than the maligni- 
ty, which looks on the enjoyments of others 
with an evil eye ; and will not consider, that 
all that fair show of happiness may only 
prove a preparation for more distinguished 
wretchedness. 

5. There is also danger from the indul- 
gence of violent grief, not only because it is 
17* 



186 



by its nature transient, and easily followed 
by opposite emotions, but because there is 
with some a disposition to rest in it, as if it 
were itself a virtue, and the fulfilment of our 
whole duty in affliction. He, that has wept 
for the loss of his friend, may imagine, that 
he has discharged the whole duty, to which 
God had called him ; and may even find a 
merit and a grace in the tenderness of emo- 
tions, which are honorable to his nature, and 
prove within him the prevalence of good 
feelings. Perhaps, too, he has exhibited 
himself, as he hopes, favourably to his friends 
in this part of an amiable character ; and 
with a strange ingenuity of vanity, ever 
ready to betray itself, where it would seem 
most excluded, he can draw from his tears 
and griefs some new occasion to think even 
better of himself than he did before. Nor 
is this all. For he suffers his tears and 
groans to perform the whole work of grace 
within him, and to stand in stead of all last- 
ing improvement of his sorrow. 

6. Nor may we omit, as among the worst 
dangers of adversity, and flowing from the 
same source, that of abuse of providence and 
of unfaithfulness to his paternal designs ; 
of hardening ourselves against rebuke, and 
thus despising the chastening of the Lord. 



187 



In this is included, also, the danger, to which 
we have adverted, from transient impres- 
sions, from resolutions forgotten ; from de- 
votions, at first excited and earnest, but after- 
wards neglected, or suffered to relapse into 
formality. If our spirits have been touched 
by sorrow, and our purposes of goodness 
have been renewed, there is extreme danger, 
as well as folly and weakness, in returning 
to the remissness, worldliness, and bad hab- 
its, from which it was the very design of af- 
fliction to arouse us. For in so doing, we 
are treacherous to ourselves ; we resist our 
own convictions ; we make fruitless the gra- 
cious designs of God's providence ; we reject 
the offered visitations of his grace, and sin 
against our own souls. 

We need not repeat, what has been already 
presented in other parts of this work of our 
duty to improve all adversity, as the minis- 
ter of God for our good. As pupils in the 
school of Christ, and as pilgrims in a world 
of trial, we must also learn to guard our- 
selves against its dangers, by a constant ref- 
erence to the great principles of our faith ; 
by keeping our minds enlightened and sus- 
tained by the truth, as it is in Jesus. The 
best conceptions, however, we can form of 
the divine government, and the most humble 



188 



views we can entertain of ourselves, as need- 
ing adversity, will not alone secure to us 
either its instruction or its solace. We must 
take care amidst its temptations to maintain 
the simplicity, the integrity, the purity of 
our hearts. We must remember, that neith- 
er the number or the intensity of our griefs 
will, without our own self-discipline, make 
them salutary. For we have seen, that 
there may be a sorrow for them, which is 
not after a godly sort. There may be a sor- 
row of unbelief, which is without hope ; a 
sorrow, which, with too much of the good- 
ness of mankind, is like the morning cloud 
and the early dew, that passeth away ; there 
may be a sorrow of affectation and show, 
which, except it were to be denounced as 
hypocrisy before God, we should only ridi- 
cule for its indescribable meanness and ab- 
surdity before men ; and lastly, there may 
be the sorrow of despair, or of murmuring 
against God, charging him foolishly. And 
all these are but parts of that sorrow, which 
finds no solace in religion, and only worketh 
death. 

F. P. 

April 25, 1830. 



Some uses of ^ftltctfon. 



They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth 
and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again 
with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him. Psalm cxxvi, 6,7 

Every christian admits that the trials, by 
which is here meant the sufferings of life, 
are to be ascribed directly to God, as their 
source, and to none but Him. And as ev- 
ery christian considers this Being as cloth- 
ed with every endearing, as well as every 
adorable attribute, he must infer that these 
trials, whatever may be their apparent char- 
acter, are intended to subserve, and there- 
fore must subserve, wise and beneficent pur- 
poses. This conclusion we could not avoid, 
though, in the present life, we could not per- 
ceive any evidence of its truth. But in 
point of fact, we can, in a vast majority of 
instances, see the connexion between these 
trials and gracious ends, which, in the pres- 
ent constitution of things, could not be se- 
cured without them. 

It would not be difficult to illustrate this 
in regard to adversity, as it is called, in all 



190 



its forms. Thus, for example, the necessity 
of constant toil and effort, which is imposed 
upon most men by the weakness and imper- 
fection of their natures, and by the constant- 
ly recurring necessities of their condition in 
this world, is ordinarily considered among 
the severe trials of life. We may wish, in 
the darkness of our wisdom, to be delivered 
from this. But upon sober reflection, it will 
be found, that by far the greater part of the 
happiness of life is derived from this very 
source. It furnishes, and, indeed, renders 
necessary, that occupation of body and 
mind, and that healthful series of engage- 
ments, which are i the very material of con- 
tented existence. 5 

Those gratifications, in which the mind is 
passive, and which pass commonly under 
the name of pleasures, though they are the 
great objects of pursuit to multitudes, are, 
nevertheless, of very little value in a just es- 
timate of human happiness. Indeed, if life 
had nothing better than these to give, life 
would not be worth possessing. Any elab- 
orate illustration of this remark is necessa- 
rily precluded here. But that it is substan- 
tially true may appear from the conduct of 
those, who are placed, I had almost said by 
the unkindness of Providence, above the ne- 



191 



cessity of any personal exertion for the sup- 
ply of their necessities. You will see them 
attempting to devise uncalled for employ- 
ment for themselves ; creating various fac- 
titious wants ; exceedingly busy with trifles; 
running to frivolous engagements, in the 
hope of running from self-weariness, and 
of avoiding the emptiness of their own hearts 
and minds. 

Thus too, sudden and severe reverses, dis- 
appointments, and the privation of common 
and accustomed privileges and blessings, are 
regarded as among the dark dealings of 
God's providence. The spirit sinks at their 
approach, and few are able to bear them 
well. But they are fraught with salutary 
counsels, which continued prosperity never 
could impart. They teach us how many of 
our wants are fancied, artificial, unreal ; 
and how few of all the things which men 
earnestly covet, are really necessary to 
human happiness. They show us what a 
heavy tribute we pay to vanity ; what a 
c tax the eyes of others impose upon us ;! 
and how numerous and importunate are 
the claims of unnecessary self-indulgence. 
They assist us in breaking unworthy habits, 
which may be growing into iron hardness 
and strength. They help us in acquiring 



192 



the virtues of self-restraint, and enlightened 
self-denial, and thus aid us in gaining free- 
dom of will, the power of using our faculties 
to the best advantage, and of establishing 
ourselves in the government of ourselves. 

They enable us, moreover, as nothing else 
can, to estimate the value of our common 
privileges and enjoyments. We can never 
feel as we ought to feel, how rich and full 
and continuous is the stream of beneficence 
which God is pouring upon the world, but 
by a temporary interruption in its flow. It 
is the prisoner, after a long confinement to 
his lonely cell, cut off from all the ordinary 
engagements, companionships, and sympa- 
thy of men, whose eyes have been compel- 
led to rest upon the same objects, day after 
day, year after year ; — it is he that can best 
tell you what are the blessings of the com- 
mon air and sun-light, and what a privilege 
it is to walk abroad, with none to hinder, 
amidst the glory and beauty of the heavens 
above and the earth beneath. It is the 
exile in a foreign land, that can give you 
the best interpretation of the word home. 
It is danger felt or feared, for ourselves or 
others, which alone can make us realize 
how great and indispensable is the constant 
care of God. And if we would know the 



193 



priceless value of the common blessing of 
health, we can only learn it from the sad 
history of the sick-room. 

In like manner there are important uses to 
be derived from pain, that is, physical suf- 
fering : which is commonly considered an 
unmingled evil. It is often a friendly and 
timely admonition of wants and dangers to 
which we are continually exposed ; and, 
without its kind ministry, in some of its 
forms, life could not be preserved a day. 
It subserves moral purposes still more im- 
portant. There is a necessary and an in- 
dissoluble connexion between every impro- 
per animal indulgence and bodily pain. In 
every such case, it is a voice in which our 
outraged natures cry out for mercy, and be- 
seech us to spare ourselves. It is a 1 sort 
of bodily conscience' that warns us of every 
departure from a strict and enlightened self- 
control, reproaches us for every deviation 
from its laws, and thus, in a vast variety of 
instances, prevents single acts of excess 
from becoming fixed habits. 

Sickness and bereavement, at once the 
most frequent and desolating of our trials, 
are yet united with moral uses of the most 
practical and important kind. They have 
often been pointed out, and are familiar to 
18 



194 



every serious and thoughtful spirit* The 
passive virtues ; just views of the nature and 
tenure of the present life ; a realizing sense 
of the inherent wants of the soul ; a proper 
apprehension of our mutual dependence ; 
and especially a soul-felt appropriation of 
the grand realities of christian faith ; — these 
are among the precious instructions and re- 
sults of sickness and bereavement. Indeed 
it may be truly said that without their severe 
yet kind discipline, no character can attain 
its best, or any very high perfection. 

Without attempting any more particular 
development of the specific uses which each 
of these trials are intended to subserve, I 
shall only offer two general remarks, which 
are common to them all. 

The first is, that affliction in all its forms, 
has a direct tendency to soften the charac- 
ter, and to call forth and improve all the 
benevolent affections. Nothing is more true 
than the common remark, that our own suf- 
fering is the best source of sympathy for 
others. And it is equally true, moreover, that 
affliction is the best instructor in every kind 
office of sympathy. It not only excites and 
sustains benevolent emotion, but teaches its 
most soothing and fitting expression. There 
is, — and here the consciousness of many 



195 



will answer to the sentiment, — there is an 
entireness and fullness of responsive feel- 
ing ; a prophetic anticipation of the wants 
of others ; a delicate mode of expressing 
kindness, which confers, while it seemingly 
seeks a favour ; an adaptation of language, 
manner, look, and tone, which the heart of 
the sufferer recognizes and understands, but 
which no language can describe, no training 
teach, and no art imitate ; — in fine, there is 
a balm and healing efficacy in tender offices 
of sympathy, which nothing but affliction 
can teach. 

On the other hand, it is the natural ten- 
dency of prosperity to render the heart 
cold and insensible to the claims of others. 
I say tendency, for there are some natures 
so genial and kind, and others so deeply 
imbued with the spirit of our religion, that 
even prosperity cannot spoil them. But 
still it is the natural tendency of a prosper- 
ous condition to render men thoroughly self- 
ish, and dispose them to view every thing 
in reference to their own accommodation. 
This selfishness may be disguised, in various 
ways, and even from themselves. It may be 
kept out of their view by some obvious acts 
of munificence, or by a prevailingly good 
humour, which they mistake for a general 



196 



benevolence, or by consulting, occasionally, 
the happiness of others, where this costs 
no personal sacrifice. But still it is a ser- 
pent that loves to lurk amidst the rich foli- 
age, and fragrant atmosphere, and wide- 
spread branches, and palmy honours of a 
full blown prosperity ; and it does lurk there 
often when its presence, as has been said, 
is least suspected. 

Affliction, too, creates a new bond among 
human hearts. In all cases, a participation 
in any sentiment of deep concern brings all 
who share it nearer together. But those 
who have suffered and wept together, in a 
sorrow common to both, are thereby brought 
into a communion peculiarly tender, and 
have a language and an intercourse pecu- 
liarly their own. 

Thus affliction opens new sources of sym- 
pathetic feeling. But the effect stops not 
here. Every emotion naturally suggests a 
train of others similar to itself, and this is 
especially true of all the softer emotions. 
Thus it is, that 4 pity is akin to love.' The 
heart that has been once touched by deep 
sorrow, is thereby predisposed and prepared 
for the admission of all the benevolent affec- 
tions. It renders it more humane, gentle, 
tender, more accessible to every generous 



197 



affection. It makes men more considerate, 
more watchful against giving offence, more 
regardful of the feelings of others, more 
disposed to acts of kindness. And when, 
from disappointment and desolation of our 
hopes, or from any cause, we are made to 
feel the insecurity and unsatisfactoriness of 
present objects, has not an unwonted serious- 
ness pervaded our spirits ; have not all tur- 
bulent feelings been stilled; and humility 
and resignation and filial trust been inspired ; 
those hopes and fears that range upward and 
onward beyond the line of time been awak- 
ened ; and a sense of God's nearness to us, 
and of our dependance and accountableness 
to Him, taken full possession of our souls ? 
Thus it is that affections which were first 
called into exercise by the loss of ' things 
seen and temporal,' lead to those which fix 
on 1 things unseen and eternal.' Thus it is, 
also, by the kind ministry of suffering, the 
whole character is softened and improved. 

But the connexion of the hardier and 
more active virtues with affliction is not less 
real. And this is the other general remark 
I proposed to offer. It is adversity in some 
of its aspects, which alone can discover us to 



18* 



198 



ourselves ; lay open what is weak and de- 
velope what is strong within us ; make 
known to us our own resources ; teach self- 
command and a just self-reliance ; free us 
from many vain illusions ; show us the real 
basis of human expectations and the true 
sources of human happiness ; give their pro- 
per impression to the great truths of our re- 
ligion ; exhibit the power and immortality 
of human affections; and impress our minds 
with the ineffable importance of those prom- 
ises which 4 lay hold on everlasting life.' 

Do we not here see some valuable uses of 
affliction 1 Do not these trials reveal bles- 
sings to us which uninterrupted prosper- 
ity never could make known ? Are we 
not thus taught, that God designs us for 
something better than a mere passive earth- 
ly enjoyment; that He loves us better than 
we love ourselves, and therefore consults for 
that higher welfare, in a better world, which 
we, in our ignorance and devotion to present 
objects, should otherwise forego ? Do we 
not perceive that these trials are the sources 
of much that is really valuable in character ; 
that they are necessary to fit us for that 
happiness which can alone meet the aspira- 
tions of the human soul, and for which the 



199 



soul was made — the joys of a meek self-ap- 
proval here on earth, and an abiding hope 
of God's acceptance in Heaven 1 

Thus, to adopt the beautiful allusion of 
the Psalmist, we are placed in this present 
'trial state,' like the husbandman who is 
preparing for a future harvest. He goes 
forth, it may be, amidst lowering skies and 
chilling winds, and threatening storms. The 
very seed he sows may be taken from the 
scanty store which is necessary to his sub- 
sistence. It is covered in the common earth, 
and for all that then appears, it is buried there 
only to decay. A thousand accidents may 
interfere to blight his hopes. 6 He sows in 
tears.' But he need not despond. As sure- 
ly as God is faithful, his labour shall not be 
lost. His trust in Providence shall not de- 
ceive him. The Lord of the harvest will 
watch over the buried and decaying seed. 
He will quicken it with new life. He will 
breathe into it new principles of growth. 
He will bid the elements go and minister to 
its well-being. He will watch it in its up- 
springing and in its progress. He will 
guard it from the storm, the mildew, and the 
frost. He will carry it forward to its ma- 
turity. He will make it multiply itself a 
thousand fold. Then shall the husbandman 



200 

4 reap in joy.' And though 'he went forth 
weeping, bearing the precious seed, yet shall 
he come again with rejoicing, bringing the 
full sheaves with him.' And thus, too, in 
regard to the sufferings of this probationary 
state, we are called often ' to sow in tears ;' 
but if we are faithful and faint not, we shall 
' reap in joy.' And though we go forth 
weeping here below bearing the precious 
seed of trial, yet may we look for full 
sheaves of that harvest, which is to be reap- 
ed hereafter in the paradise of God. 

J. B. 

Salem, March 8th, 1833. 



£f)e Spfrft's Sottfl of (Eonsolatfou. * 



Dear parents, grieve no more for me, 

My parents, grieve no more ! 
Believe that I am happier far 

Than even with you before ; 
I 've left a world where woe and sin 

Swell onwards as a river, 
And gained a world, where I shall rest, 

In peace and joy forever. 



Our Father bade me come to him, 

He gently bade me come, 
And he has made his heavenly house 

My dwelling place and home ; 
On that best day of all the seven, 

Which saw the Saviour rise, 
I heard the voice you could not hear, 

Which called me to the skies. 



* This song, first written for the Youth's Keepsake, is supposed 
to be addressed by the departed spirit of a boy, to his parents, 
who had lost two other children before him. 



202 



I saw too, what you could not see, 

Two beauteous angels stand ; 
They smiling stood and looked at me, 

And beckoned with their hand ; 
They said they were my sisters dear, 

And they were sent to bear 
My spirit to their blest abode, 

To live forever there. 



Then think not of the mournful time 

When I resigned my breath, 
Nor of the place where I was laid — 

The gloomy house of death : 
But think of that high world, where I 

No more shall suffer pain ; 
And of the time when all of us 

In heaven shall meet again. 

F. W. P. G. 



APPENDIX. 



APPENDIX. 

To the original pieces, of which this little 
work is composed, are here added a few passa- 
ges, chiefly from writers of celebrity, and com- 
posed either under circumstances of severe 
personal affliction, or for the consolation of 
their friends in bereavement. The number 
of such selections might be greatly extended. 
In the few, however, to which the compiler 
has preferred to confine himself, he is happy 
in uniting the names of authors, whose spec- 
ulations on other subjects, might widely dif- 
fer from each other and his own ; not only 
as the passages in themselves will be found 
unexceptionable — most of them indeed are 
entitled to a higher character,- but as a pleas- 
ing evidence, that in the sacred offices of 
consolation, as in any work of practical 
utility, christians of different names and 
parties may cordially unite. In casting his 
eye over the collections, which, however 
defective, have been made for this pur- 
pose, he could not but perceive, how little 
have the subjects of a disputed theology to 
do with the work of consolation ; how much 
19 



206 



they are overlooked, even by those, who on 
other points would deem it necessary to 
press them as essential to an acceptable 
faith. The beautiful little piece by Dr 
Wardlaw, of Edinburgh, after the death of 
his child, and the truly christian letter of 
Dr Balfour, a late eminent clergyman of 
Glasgow, — for both of which the writer is 
indebted to the kindness of a friend, — with 
the address of Mr Danforth to his flock af- 
ter the loss of three of his children, may be 
taken as an evidence, if any such were 
wanted, that when the heart is truly touched, 
and the best affections are in their genuine 
exercise, the doubtful things of religion are 
involuntarily forgotten. And through the 
4 darkness and the shadows,' that rest upon 
them, the soul of the afflicted, and the spirit 
of the ' son of consolation, ' whatever may be 
their diversities of speculation, ascend to- 
gether, and at once, to the pure heaven of 
truth, even to those grand, but simple prin- 
ciples, which it is the glory of the gospel to 
reveal ; and which, to every sincere believer 
and every submissive sufferer, is their only 
assurance of the hope full of immortality. 
Of such truths, as these ; — the paternal 
character of God, and of his perfect provi- 
dence ; the mission of Christ Jesus as the 



207 



resurrection and the life ; and the glorious 
doctrine of immortality, — we may say as 
did the earnest disciple to his Lord, in words, 
already illustrated, ' To whom shall we go ? 
these are the words of eternal life. 5 

The reader will remark, that most of the 
extracts in this selection are with particular 
reference to that form of bereavement, for 
which it has been a leading object of this 
book to supply consolation, the deaths of 
children. May they help those who are 
thus afflicted to remember, that 

They are not lost, 
Who leave their parents for the calm of heaven. 



F. P. 



Extract from the Diary of John Evelyn, Esq.* recording the 
deaths of a promising son and daughter 

'Jan. 27, 165S. — After six fits of a quar- 
tan ague, with which it pleased God to visit 
him, died my dear son, Richard, to our in- 
expressible grief and affliction, five years 
and three days old only ; but at that tender 
age a prodigy for wit and understanding ; 
for beauty of body, a very angel ; for en- 
dowment of mind, of incredible and rare 
hopes. To give only a little taste of some 
of them, and thereby give glory to God, who 



* John Evelyn, Esq. the author of ' Sylva,' was a gentleman of 
distinguished character and influence in the reign of Charles I], 
and of the two subsequent reigns. He was in habits of close inti- 
macy with the most distinguished individuals of his time, both in 
church and in state ; the friend, as may be seen, of Dr Jeremy 
Taylor ; and was held in high esteem, not only for his fine taste 
and elegant accomplishments, but for his piety and irreproachable 
manners. In his journal, he records with much feeling and inter- 
est his domestic history, as well as the great public events of 
his day. The two children, whose death he so tenderly laments, 
must indeed have been remarkable for their early endowments and 
virtues. And though something may be allowed to the fondnes3 
of parental affection, yet no one, we believe, can read the little 
history he has given of them, without some emotions of sympa- 
thy for a parent thus bereaved. 



209 



out of the mouths of babes and infants does 
sometimes perfect his praises. At two years 
and an half old, he could perfectly read any 
of the English, Latin, French, or Gothic 
letters, pronouncing the three first languages 
exactly. He had before the fifth year, or in 
that year, not only skill to read most writ- 
ten hands, but to decline all the words, con- 
jugate the verbs regular, and most of the ir- 
regular. Strange was his apt and ingenious 
application of fables and words, for he had 
read iEsop ; he had a wonderful disposition 
to mathematics, having by heart divers pro- 
positions in Euclid, that were read to him in 
play, and he would make lines and demon- 
strate them. 

As to his piety, astonishing were his ap- 
plications of scripture upon occasion, and 
his sense of God ; he had learnt all his cate- 
chism early, and understood the historical 
parts of the Bible and New-Testament, to a 
wonder. These, and the like illuminations, 
far exceeding his age and experience, con- 
sidering the prettiness of his address and 
behaviour, cannot but leave impressions in 
me at the memory of him. He would of 
himself select the most pathetic Psalms, and 
chapters out of Job, to read to his maid dur- 
ing his sickness, telling her, when she pitied 
19* 



210 



him, that all God's children must suffer af- 
fliction. How thankfully would he receive 
admonition ; how soon be reconciled ; how 
indifferent and yet how cheerful. He would 
give grave advice to his brother John ; bear 
with his impertinences, and say he was but 
a child. If he heard of, or saw any new 
thing, he was unquiet till he was told how it 
was made ; he brought to us all such diffi- 
culties as he found in books, to be expound- 
ed. He was all life, all prettiness; far from 
morose, sullen, or childish in any thing he 
said or did. 

The day before he died, he called to me, 
and in a more serious manner than usual, 
told me that for all I loved him so dearly, I 
should give my house, land, and all my fine 
things, to his brother Jack ; he should have 
none of them. And next morning, when he 
found himself ill, and that I persuaded him 
to keep his hands in bed, he demanded 
whether he might pray to God with his hands 
unjoined; and a little after, whilst in great 
agony, whether he should not offend God by 
using his holy name so often, calling for 
ease. So early knowledge ; so much piety 
and perfection ! But thus God, having 
dressed up a saint fit for himself, would not 
longer permit him with us, unworthy of the 



211 



future fruits of this incomparable, hopeful 
blossom. Such a child I never saw ; for 
such a child I bless God in whose bosom he 
is ! May I and mine become as this little 
child, who now follows the child Jesus, that 
Lamb of God, in a white robe whithersoever 
he goes. Even so, Father ! Thou gavest 
him to us. Thou hast taken him from us, 
blessed be the name of the Lord ! That I 
had any thing acceptable to Thee was from 
thy grace alone, since from me he had no- 
thing but sin, but that Thou hast pardoned, 
blessed be my God forever. Amen ! 

Feb. 25 — Came Dr Jeremy Taylor, and 
my brothers, with other friends, to visit and 
condole with us.' 

• March 4th, 1685. — My daughter Mary 
was taken with the small pox, and there was 
soon found no hope of her recovery. A very 
great affliction to me ; but God's holy will be 
done. 

March 10th. — She received the holy sa- 
crament. After which, disposing herself to 
suffer what God should determine to inflict, 
she bore the remainder of her sickness with 
extraordinary patience and piety, and more 
than ordinary resignation and blessed frame 
of mind. She died the 14th, to our un- 



212 



speakable sorrow and affliction ; and not to 
ours only, but that of all who knew her, who 
were many of the best quality, greatest and 
most virtuous persons. 

The justness of her stature, person, come- 
liness of countenance, gracefulness of mo- 
tion, unaffected, though more than ordinary 
beautiful, were the least of her ornaments, 
compared with those of her mind. She had 
an excellent voice ; the sweetness of which, 
and happy management of it, added such an 
agreeableness to her countenance, without 
any constraint or concern, that when she 
sung it was as charming to the eye as to the 
ear ; and this I the rather note, because it 
was a universal remark, and for which 
many noble and judicious persons in music 
desired to hear her. What shall I say, or 
rather not say, of the cheerfulness and 
agreeableness of her humour ? condescend- 
ing to the meanest servant in the family, she 
still kept up respect without the least pride. 
She would often read to them, examine, in- 
struct, and pray with them if they were sick, 
so as she was exceedingly beloved of every 
body. Piety was so prevalent an ingredient 
in her constitution, (as I may say) that even 
amongst equals and superiors, she was no 
sooner become intimately acquainted, but 



213 



she would endeavour to improve them by in- 
sinuating something of religion, and that 
tended to bring them to a love of devotion. 
She abhorred flattery ; and though she had 
abundance of wit, the raillery was so inno- 
cent and ingenuous, that it was most agree- 
able. She danced with the greatest grace 
I had ever seen; but she seldom showed 
that perfection, save in the gracefulness of 
her carriage, which was with an air of 
sprightly modesty, not easy to be described. 
There was nothing affected, but natural and 
easy in her whole discourse, to which the 
extraordinary sweetness of her tone, even in 
familiar speaking, was very charming. No- 
thing was so pretty as her descending to 
play with little children, whom she would 
caress and humour with great delight. But 
she most affected to be with grave and sober 
men, of whom she might learn something, 
and improve herself. I have been assisted by 
her in reading and praying by me ; compre- 
hensive of uncommon notions ; curious of 
knowing every thing to some excess, had I 
not sometimes repressed it. Nothing was 
so delightful to her as to go into my study, 
where she would willingly have spent whole 
days; for, as I said, she had read abundance 
of history, all the best poets, even Terence, 
Plautus, Homer, Virgil, Horace, Ovid ; and 



214 



could herself compose happily. But all 
these are vain trifles to the virtues, that 
adorned her soul. She was sincerely reli- 
gious ; most dutiful to her parents, whom she 
loved with an affection tempered with great 
esteem, so as we were easy and free, and 
never so well pleased as when she was with 
us ; nor needed we other conversation. She 
was kind to her sisters and was ever improv- 
ing them by her constant course of piety. 
O dear, sweet, and desirable child ! how 
shall I part with all this goodness and virtue, 
without the bitterness of sorrow and reluc- 
tancy of a tender parent ! Thy affection, 
duty and love to me was that of a friend as 
well as of a child. Nor less dear to thy 
mother, whose example and tender care of 
thee was unparalleled ; nor was thy return 
to her less conspicuous. Oh ! how desolate 
hast thou left us ! To the grave shall we 
both carry thy memory. 

God alone, in whose bosom thou art at 
rest and happy, give us to resign thee and all 
our contentments, (for thou wert indeed all 
in this world,) to his blessed pleasure. Let 
him be glorified by our submission ; and 
may He give us grace to bless him for the 
graces he implanted in thee, thy virtuous 
life, thy pious and holy death, which is in- 
deed the only comfort of our souls.' 



^Letter of (Eoutrolence o# JBx jjeremg ^Ta^lor. 



Besides the deaths of his daughter Mary, and his 
son Richard, Mr Evelyn was afflicted by the loss of 
another promising boy, named George. To console 
him under this and other domestic afflictions, his 
faithful friend frequently visited him, and addressed 
to him a letter, { which,' says Bishop Heber, in his 
life of Taylor, * who is there, that would forgive my 
omitting ?' We select here a few passages. 

TO JOHN EVELYN, ESQ. 

Deare Sir, — If dividing and sharing griefs 
were like the cutting of rivers, I dare say, 
you would find your stream much abated. 
For I account myself to have a great cause 
of sorrow, not only in the diminution of the 
numbers of your joys and hopes, but in the 
loss of that pretty person, your strangely 
hopeful boy. I cannot tell all my own sor- 
rows without adding to yours : — and I can 
no otherwise comfort you but by telling y ou, 
that you have very great cause to mourn. — 
But remember, sir, your two boys are two 



216 



bright starres, and their innocence is secur- 
ed, and you shall never hear evil of them 
again. Their state is safe, and heaven is 
given to them upon very easy termes, noth- 
ing but to be borne and die. It will cost 
you more trouble to get where they are : 
and amongst other things, one of the hard- 
nesses will be, that you must overcome even 
this just and reasonable grief. And, in- 
deed, though the grief hath but too reason- 
able a cause, yet it is much more reasonable, 
that you should master it. For doe but con- 
sider what you would have suffered for their 
interest : you would have suffered them to 
goe from you to be great princes in a strange 
country : and if you can be content to suffer 
your owne inconvenience for their interest, 
you command your worthiest love, and the 
question of mourning is at an end. But you 
have said and done well, when you look up- 
on it as a rod of God ; and he that so smites 
here will spare hereafter. — Sir, if you doe 
not look to it, time will snatch your honor 
from you, and reproach you for not effecting 
that by christian philosophy, which time will 
doe alone. And if you consider, that of the 
bravest men in the world, we find the sel- 
domest stories of their children, and the 
apostles had none, and thousands of the 



217 



worthiest persons, that sound most in sto- 
ry, died childless; — you will find it is a 
rare act of Providence so to impose upon 
worthy men a necessity of perpetuating 
their names by worthy actions, and discour- 
ses, governments and reasonings. If the 
breach be never repaired, it is because God 
does not see it fit to be ; and if you will be 
of his mind, it will be much the better. Sir, 
now you have an opportunity of serving 
God by passive graces. Strive to be an ex- 
ample and a comfort to your lady, and by 
your wise counsel and comfort stand in the 
breaches of your own family, and let them 
see, that God never displeases you, as long 
as the main stake is preserved, — I meane 
your hopes and confidence of heaven. Sir, 
I shall pray for all that you can want, and 
shall always do you honor, and faine also 
would do you service, if it were in the pow- 
er, as it is also in the affection of 
Dear Sir, 

Your most affectionate and 
obliged friend and servant, 
Jer : Taylor. 

Feb. 17, 1658. 



20 



218 



Again, in a letter during the sickness of still anoth- 
er child of Evelyn, he thus writes, 

c Sir, I doe really beare a share in your 
fears and your sorrowes for your deare boy. 
I doe and shall pray to God for him ; but I 
know not what to say in such things. If 
God intend, by these clouds, to convey him 
and you to brighter graces and more illus- 
trious glories, I dare not with too much pas- 
sion, speak against the so great good of a 
person that is so deare to me and a child 
that is so deare to you. But I hope, that 
God will do what is best ; and I humbly 
beg of him to choose what is that best for 
you both.' 

Taylor himself, as we learn from the in- 
teresting life of him by Bishop Heber, had 
frequent need of the consolations, he so 
skillfully and kindly imparted to his friends. 
He was severely tried by the ill-conduct y 
as well as by the loss of some of his chil- 
dren. The eldest, who was in the king's 
service, fell in a duel with a brother officer r 
who also died of his wounds. The second, 
Charles, was intended for the church. 4 But 
his views of life,' says Heber, ' and, it would 
seem, his conduct also, did not correspond 



219 



with his father's hopes and example. He 
became the favourite companion of the prof- 
ligate Villiers, duke of Buckingham, and 
died in early life of a decline, a little before 
his father's decease, in 1667. Of the loss of 
one of his youngest children a few years be- 
fore, this exemplary sufferer thus writes to 
the same faithful friend. 

'Deare Sir, — I am in some little disorder 
by reason of the death of a little child of 
mine, a boy that lately made us very glad, 
but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while 
we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe 
as he is.' 



X fctxoto tjjott Sast none. 

BY T. K. HERVEY. 



I know thou hast gone to the house of thy rest, 

Then why should my soul be so sad ! 
I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest, 

And the mourner looks up and is glad ! 
Where love has put off, in the land of its birth, 

The stain it had gathered in this j 
And hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth, 

Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss ! 



I know thou hast gone where thy forehead is starred 

With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul, 
Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred, 

Nor thy heart be flung back from its goal. 
I know thou hast drank of the Lethe, that flows 

Through a land where they do not forget, 
That sheds over memory only repose, 

And takes from it only regret. 



In thy far away dwelling, wherever it be, 

I believe thou hast visions of mine, 
And the love that made all things a music to me 

I have not yet learnt to resign, 
In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea. 

Or alone with the breeze on the hill, 
1 have ever a presence that whispers of thee* 

And my spirit lies down and is still. 



221 



Mine eye must be dark, that so long has been dim, 

Ere again it may gaze upon thine, 
But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home, 

In many a token and sign. 
I never look up with a vow to the sky, 

But a light like thy beauty is there — 
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply, 

When I pour out my spirit in prayer. 



And though like a mourner that sits by a tomb, 

I am wrapt in a mantle of care, 
Yet the grief of my bosom — oh, call it not gloom, 

Is not the black grief of despair. 
By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night, 

Far off a bright vision appears, 
And hope, like the rainbow, a being of light, 

Is born, like the rainbow, in tears. 



20* 



Hotter of <Sfr ©Offllfam temple. 



Extract from Sir William Temple's letter to Lady Essex, repror- 
ing her excessive grief for the loss of her daughter. 

1 Yet after all, madam, I think your loss 
so great, and some measure of your grief so 
deserved, that would all your passionate 
complaints, all the anguish of your heart, 
do any thing to retrieve it ; could tears wa- 
ter the lovely plant, so as to make it grow 
again after once it is cut down ; would sighs 
furnish new breath, or could it draw life and 
spirits from the wasting of yours, — lam 
sure your friends would be so far from accu- 
sing your passion, that they would encour- 
age it as much and share it as deep as they 
could. But, alas ! the eternal laws of the 
creation extinguish all such hopes, forbid all 
such designs ; nature gives us many children 
and friends to take them away, but takes 
none away to give them us again. And this 
makes the excesses of grief to have been so 
universally condemned as a thing unnatural, 
because so much in vain ; whereas nature, 
they say, does nothing in vain ; as a thing 



223 



so unreasonable, because so contrary to our 
own designs ; for we all design to be well, 
and at ease, and by grief we make ourselves 
ill of imaginary wounds, and raise ourselves 
troubles most properly out of the dust, 
whilst our ravings and complaints are but 
like arrows shot up into the air at no mark, 
and so to no purpose, but only to fall back 
upon our heads, and destroy ourselves, in- 
stead of recovering or revenging our friends. 

All the precepts of Christianity agree to 
teach and command us to moderate our pas- 
sions, to temper our affections towards all 
things below ; to be thankful for the posses- 
sion, and patient under the loss, whenever 
He, that gave it, shall see fit to take away. 
Your extreme fondness was, perhaps, as dis- 
pleasing to God before, as now your extreme 
affliction ; and your loss may have been a 
punishment for your faults in the manner of 
enjoying what you had. Submission is the 
only way of reasoning between a creature 
and its Maker ; and contentment in his will 
is the greatest duty we can pretend to, and 
the best remedy we can apply to all our 
misfortunes.' 



& <£jm8ttan iWotjjer on Xty ©eat!) of a trattimjj 

€»4 



There was the parting sigh j 

With that the spirit fled, 
And winged its flight on high, 
And left the body dead. 
No prayers, no tears, its flight could stay ; 
'Twas Jesus called the soul away 



Oh, how shall I complain 

Of him who rules above j 
Who sends no needless pain ; 
Who always smites in love ; 
Who looks in tend'rest pity down, 
E'en when he seems to wear a frown . ? 



The eye of Jesus wept, 

It dropt a holy tear, 
When Mary's brother { slept/ 
A friend to Jesus dear ; 
Delightful thought ! that blessed eye, 
Still beams with kindness in the sky. 

I know my babe is blest, 

Her bliss by Jesus given ; 
She's early gone to rest, 

She's found an early heaven ; 
The sigh that closed her eyes on earth, 
Was signal of her happier birth. 



225 



But oh, my spirits fail, 

I feel a pang untold — 
Those ruby lips so pale ! 
That blushing cheek so cold ! 
And dim those eyes of ' dewy light,' 
That smiled and glanced so sweetly bright. 



To lay that darling form, 
So lovely e'en in death, 
Food for corruption's worm, 
The mould'ring earth beneath ! 
Oh, worse to me than twice to part ; 
Than second death-stroke to my heart ' 



As summer-flower she grew, 

Expanding to the morn, 
All gemm'd with sparkling dew, 
A flower without a thorn, 
A mother's sweet and lovely flower, 
Sweeter and lovelier every hour. 



But, ah ! my morning bloom 

Scarce felt the warming ray 5 
An unexpected gloom 
Obscured the rising day ; 
A dreary, cold, and with'ring blast, 
Low on the ground its beauties cast. 



Its glist'ning leaves are shed, 

That spread so fresh and fair ; 
The balmy fragrance fled, 
That scented all the air j 
And lowly laid its lifeless form, 
The gentle victim of the storm. 



226 



But why in anguish weep ? 

Hope beams upon my view, 
'Tis but a winter's sleep, 

My flowers shall spring anew ; 
Each darling flower in earth that sleeps, 
O'er which fond mem'ry hangs and weeps j — 

All to new life shall rise, 

In heavenly beauty bright ; 
Shall charm my ravished eyes, 
In tints of rainbow light ; 
Shall bloom unfading in the skies, 
And drink the dews of Paradise ! 



Oh, this is blest relief! 

My fainting heart it cheers ; 
It cools my burning grief, 
And sweetens all my tears ; 
These eyes shall see my darling then, 
Nor shed a parting tear again. 

And while my bleeding heart 
Laments for comforts gone, 
I only mourn a part, — 
I am not left alone j 
Though nipt some buds of opening joy, 
How many still my thanks employ ! 

And thou ! my second heart, 
Loved partner of my grief, 
Heaven bids not thee depart, 
Of earthly joys the chief 3 
A favoured wife and mother still, 
Let grateful praise my bosom fill ' 

Ralph Wardlaw. 

Edinburgh. 



tt toeii mm tic mm r 



Is it well with the child? And she answered, it is well.* 

That it is well with children when they 
die, we know. We will then inquire what 
are the designs of Providence in calling 
children away from their parents' arms. 

I think that you cannot possibly imagine 
more than two reasons why children are 
thus called away. The first is, to save them 
from the evils of the world. Far be it from 
me to represent this life as a vale of tears, 
or as a place where the miserable outnumber 
the happy. I know that it is not so, and that 
the great proportion of the earth's inhabit- 
ants want not the power but the disposition 
to be happy. Still, time and chance happen 
to them all ; and if you look upon those who 
started together in life, with high hopes and 
bounding steps, you find some who are soon 
bent down with suffering, while others keep 



* The passages, which follow, are taken from a discourse de- 
livered by Rev. W. B. O. Peabody, to his society in Springfield, 
at a season of unusual anxiety and sorrow ; and is addressed to 
those who have suffered, and to those who are apprehending, the 
loss of children. 



228 



on successfully to the last. You find some, 
who midway in life, are wasted with disease, 
which breaks off all the purposes of life and 
sinks them slowly and heavily to the grave. 
You find some, who, without any fault of 
their own, are thrown into a condition in 
life, in which they have every thing to en- 
dure, with no hope of any thing better in 
this world. You see the man with the crown 
of rejoicing taken from his head ; you see 
the aged moving alone, unsupported and un- 
cared for to the tomb. Such destinies in life 
there are ; and such might have been the 
portion of the child who perished yesterday, 
to-day, or the one that should die to-morrow. 
If so, the parent should thank God, who 
hides it from the evil, even though He hides 
it in the grave. 

But these which I have named are not 
the worst evils of life. This is a world of 
sin. They who come forward to bear a part 
in it, meet a thousand various temptations ; 
and there are too many who yield to them 
and fall. The generous and high-minded 
youth sometimes becomes a cold, selfish 
and unfeeling man ; the man who used to 
look the world in the face, becomes base 
and dishonourable, and either frowns in 
savage defiance, or looks down with shame. 



229 



They who were loved for their kind hearts, 
become slaves to their vices which make 
them a burden and sorrow to their friends ; 
and very often, those whom the world ac- 
cuses of no vices, are yet entirely destitute 
of moral principles and religious affections. 
If it might have been the fate of your child, 
to sink into any one of these snares; if 
there were the least danger of his becoming 
an alien from heaven, and self outcast from 
God, what parent would not rejoice to have 
his child taken to a better world before it 
becomes deeply stained with the corruption 
of this ? You should bless the hand that 
throws open the door of escape, even if it 
is the door of the grave. 

No parent feels as if her child could ever 
have become a slave to corruption, but 
God knows ; and if it is not to save them 
from the evils of life, that they are taken 
away, it must be for the second reason ; — 
to place them in a condition more favourable 
to their improvement than this world affords. 

I fear that the future life is so imperfectly 
realized, that this consolation loses most of 
its power. Why will men persist in think- 
ing of heaven as a place of unmeaning 
rest, of indolent happiness, where the soul 
finds nothing but still and deep repose ? 
21 



230 



They ought to reflect, that repose is not 
happiness to the mind, and that the enjoy- 
ment they dream of, is rather stagnation 
than repose. — It is a state wholly unsuited 
to the nature of man. They ought to think 
of heaven as a place where every power of 
every mind shall be steadily, successfully, 
and therefore happily exerted; where every 
affection of every heart shall be deeply in- 
terested, and therefore fully blessed. What 
the employment of that state will be, we 
know so far as this, it must be the employ- 
ment of mind, in such researches as to 
give the highest happiness, in discovering 
the manifestations of the glory and goodness 
of God. To think of heaven as we do, af- 
fords no comfort, no attraction ; it is like 
the long yellow line of a desert, seen by 
mariners who are looking for green hills and 
valleys as they draw near the shore ; when, 
would they imagine it as a place, where all 
are active, interested and happy, they would 
feel that when their child is gone to that 
world, there are some there, who will watch 
the flower, as it unfolds the beauty of its 
promise, and spreads out to the Sun of 
Righteousness its leaves, from which the 
dew of youth will never dry. 



231 



Think thus of heaven, and it will be some- 
thing real and substantial to offer the mourn- 
ing heart. It is evidently a region more fav- 
ourable to the growth of the immortal nature 
than this world. For, though in this world, 
there are trials and hardships, which serve 
to discipline some spirits, and in this way to 
form them for heaven, there are other spir- 
its perhaps, which are comparatively pure, 
and do not need them ; which are gentle, 
and could not bear them ; which could not 
endure the rough climate of this world, but 
can grow and flourish divinely in the milder 
air of heaven. Such spirits, it is but reas- 
onable to suppose, are translated, because 
heaven is better for them than earth ; and 
God in his mercy, places every soul in the 
state, whatever it may be, which is most fav- 
ourable to its growth in excellence. In our 
Father's house there are many mansions ; 
and all are open to the innocent as well as 
the just. 

This accounts for the fact which has been 
so often observed, that many children of the 
brightest promise are removed from this 
world. A fact I have no doubt it is ; though 
parents naturally esteem their own children 
too highly, and the lost are often the most 
loved, without being the best ; still, it has 



232 



been remarked from the earliest ages, that 
early death is given to the favourites of 
heaven. And why should it not be so 1 If 
there is a better world, for which they are 
better fitted than for this, why should we 
wish to detain them here 1 why should we 
lament when the heavenly spirit ascends to 
its home in the skies ? The parents should 
be ready to give up their child to a father, 
who has more right to its presence and af- 
fection than they ; and, assured that * of 
such is the kingdom of heaven,' they should 
feel, that the hour cannot be untimely, which 
numbers it with the cherubim and all the ra- 
diant spirits round the throne. 



JLettet at 3&ek- 30r Balfour. 



A letter from Rev. Br Balfour, a clergyman of Glasgow, to hte 
friends, after the death of his only son, who died while on a 
visit to their house.* 

4 Glasgow - , August, 1766. 

Sir, 

I beg you will let me know particularly 
how you and Mrs Dennison are. I can say 
with truth, that from the moment of receiv- 
ing the severe shock, an anxiety about you 
all hath mixed itself with almost all tears 
and prayers on my account. If my intended 
visit is on any account, or in any way, disa- 
greeable, fully tell me, for nothing is more 
remote from my mind, than giving the least 
pain to any one of you. So far am I from 
looking with an evil eye at , as the 



* The Rev. Dr Balfour, who lately deceased at Glasgow, wa? 
for many years one of the most eminent divines of the church of 
Scotland. The occasion of this excellent letter was the death of 
his only son, who was drowned during a visit to some friends in 
the country, while bathing in company with a son of their own, 
who escaped. The tenderness and generous consideration, ex- 
pressed for his friends under such circumstances, seem to us 
scarcely less admirable than the truly christian submission,: which 
it displays. 

21* 



234 



cause of my distress, the loss of my dear boy 
appears to be attended with many alleviat- 
ing circumstances, which probably could not 
have been the case any where else. The 
time, the divinely appointed time, was come 
for his removal from the tender embraces of 
a fond parent. And since this was the divine 
will, I dare not say unkind, or unjust, of his 
and my Father in heaven, I adore and bless 
his name for enabling me to acquiesce with 
perfect satisfaction in his sovereign will. I 
knew this high and unsearchable will of God 
took effect amidst all that immediate atten- 
tion, which a parent's eye, a parent's hand, 
a parent's breast could have thought of for 
his safety. Instead, therefore, of one reflec- 
tion, I now most sincerely give, and if able, 
will in person give, with my whole heart, the 
most grateful acknowledgments to you, and 
all about your house, for flying to the instant 
relief of my perishing child ; that lady first. 
And the good God, who frustrated all these 
kind and friendly endeavours, which I shall 
never forget, has taught me, and will teach 
you, " he does all things well," " according 
to the counsel of his own will." I greatly feel 
for the deep distress it has brought upon 
you, and worthy Mrs Dennison, because you 
participate so much in my sorrow. 



235 



I wish now, my dear friend, to set before 
you some of the consolations, which have 
relieved my otherwise sorrowful spirits. The 
God, who has visited me with this sore ca- 
lamity, has, I assure you, been to me a 44 God 
of all comfort." When afflictions abound, 
his consolations are made much more to 
abound ; he hath comforted me by fixing my 
attention on his divine perfections; his glo- 
rious, gracious character, design, and rela- 
tions. I see there can be no error, or rash- 
ness in any part of infinite wisdom ; nor 
cruelty, nor unkindness in the intention of 
Him, who is righteous, and good, and mer- 
ciful. 

I hope that you, Mrs Dennison, will not 
be afraid to meet me. I shall endeavour to 
comfort you with the consolations, which are 
in Jesus Christ. They are strong, everlast- 
ing ; and when the streams of worldly com- 
fort are dried up, whither should we go but 
to the comforts of divine love and faith 1 
This is a fountain, which pours forth its 
gracious influence, adapted to all our situa- 
tions. This dispensation is to teach us the 
vanity of this life, and the temporary nature 
of all earthly joy. What is this world, with 
all its riches, honours, pleasures and con- 



236 



nexions, without God for ever ? What, with 
his blessed presence, can we want, that is 
good for us ? " Though our house be not so 
with God, he hath made with us an everlast- 
ing covenant ordered in all things, and sure.' 
We may well add, " This is all our salvation 
and all our desire," and with the prophet 
Habakkuk, "Although the fig-tree should not 
blossom, yet we will rejoice in the God of 
our salvation." Oh, how divine is that relig- 
ion, that presents such truths to the mind ; 
how solacing are its comforts ! Let us look 
forward to the bright morning of the resur- 
rection, which will turn all our sorrow into 
joy. Then shall our companions in the faith 
and patience of Jesus Christ appear with 
him in glory. How wondrously changed 
their forms ! No more corruption ; no more 
tendency to disease or death ; no possibility 
of any future separation ; shining forth in 
all the Derfections of unfading beauty, spot- 
less purity, and immortal honour. The un- 
folded mystery of redemption, and the glo- 
ry of their Saviour, will open, and show them 
such resplendent surveys of grace and great- 
ness, as shall more than satisfy them with re- 
gard to past events ; the most overwhelming 
and confounding, will fill them with eternal 



237 



admiration. I trust you will not be offended 
at the freedom and earnestness, with which 
a friend, more than ever concerned for your 
best interests, has written. 

Be assured, I sincerely wish for you 
health, prosperity, and every good thing.' 



35rtract from e Sermon of 3&eb. 3Bx Barnes." 

Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, oh, ye, my friends, for 
the hand of God hath touched me. — Job. 

' What happened to pious Job, in part, 
hath happened to me. My first and only 
daughter is dead. As many of you had 
some acquaintance with her, and know that 
I have no daughter left to help me under the 
infirmities of age, I am sure of all the com- 
passion I can reasonably expect. I have 
friends to comfort me in the hour of trouble 

No inconsiderable part of my business 
through life has been to administer consola- 
tion to the afflicted. How well I have done 
it, I must leave to others to determine. God 
is my witness, that in this part of my work I 
have been sincere ; and, generally speaking, 
my words have been well accepted. My 
visits have been agreeable to me, because 
they appeared to be so to others. The time 



* Dr Barnes was a clergyman of considerable repute in Scitu- 
ate, Mass ; and the discpurse from which this affecting passage is 
;taken, was preached after the funeral of an only daughter. 



239 



is now come, when I stand in need of that 
consolation, I have given to others. My be- 
loved people appear ready and disposed to 
mingle their tears with mine. I am full in 
the belief that my daughter, so much beloved 
by me, lived beloved by others. I think she 
had not an enemy in the world : if she had, 
I know not the person, nor do I wish to 
know ; and as she lived beloved, so I have 
reason to think she died lamented. What 
adds much to my support in my trouble, is 
the strong hope I have that she is gone to a 
better world. She was not unhappy in this, 
Tmt she might be more happy in another : to 
that she is gone, and there I leave her ; I 
shall soon follow her. Could she have staid, 
to help me finish a long life that is fast de- 
clining, it would have been exceedingly 
agreeable. But this is a favour which my 
God, for wise reasons, thought it best not to 
grant. 

My life is more solitary than it was. It is 
best that I should be weaned from the world, 
before I am called to leave it. God has ta- 
ken the most effectual way to do it. I do 
not complain. I have friends left, and hope 
I always shall have : we will weep together. 
I am not childless ; I have a son to comfort 
me, as good as I could wish. I leave my 



240 



grand-children in good hands : they are un- 
known to you, and perhaps always will be ; 
let them have an interest in your prayers. 
To give a character of my beloved daughter 
belongs not to me. Her acquaintance want 
none ; her life speaks for itself ; let her 
works praise her ; and her husband and 
children rise up, as they will, and call her 
blessed. The will of God is done, and we 
will all say, Amen.' 



Sjjeecj) of tj)e 3&eb* Samuel 2Batifortl) at tfje 6&abe 
of tjjtee of j)ts (EJnltirett * 



1 My Friends, 

If any, that see my grief, should say unto 
me, as the Danites unto Micah, What aileth 
thee ? I thank God, I cannot answer, as he 
did, They have taken away my gods. My 
heart was indeed somewhat set upon my 
children, especially the eldest; but they 
were none of my gods, none of my portion ; 
my portion is whole and untouched unto this 
day. 

* The Rev. Samuel Danforth was one of the early ministers of 
Roxbury, and was for many years a colleague with the venerable 
Eliot, justly celebrated, among the worthies of New-England, and, 
as the ' apostle of the Indians.' The affliction, which called forth 
this touching address to his sympathizing parishioners, is men- 
tioned by Cotton Mather in his ' Magnalia.' 

' In December, 1659, the (hitherto unknown) malady of croup 
invaded and removed many children. By opening of one of them 
the malady and remedy, though too late for very many, were dis- 
covered. Among those many that thereby expired, were the three 
children of the Rev. Mr S. Danforth, the eldest of whom, being 
upwards of five years,' was remarkably intelligent and pious. 
c How the sorrowful father entertained this solemn providence may 
be partly gathered from what he expressed unto such as came to 
attend his branches unto their graves.' 

22 



242 



I trust the Lord hath done, what he hath 
done, in wisdom and faithfulness, and dear 
love ; and that in taking these pleasant 
things from me, he exercises and expresses 
as tender affection unto me, as I now ex- 
press towards them, in mourning for the loss 
of them. My desire is, that none may be 
over much dismayed at what hath befallen 
us ; and let no man, by any means, be of- 
fended. Who may say to the Lord, « What 
doest thou?' I can say from my heart, 
though what is come upon us is very dread- 
ful and amazing, yet I consent unto the 
will of God, that it is good. Doth not the 
goldsmith cast his metal into the furnace ? 
and you, husbandmen, do you not cause the 
flail to pass over your grain, not that you 
hate your wheat, but that you desire pure 
bread ? 

You know, that nine years since, I was in 
a desolate condition ; without father ; with- 
out mother ; without wife ; without children ; 
but, what a father, and mother, and wife, 
have been bestowed upon me, and are still 
continued, though my children are removed ! 
And above all, though I cannot deny, but 
that it pierceth my very heart, to call to re- 
membrance the voice of my dear children, 
calling, father, father ! a voice now not 



243 



heard ; yet I bless God, it doth far more 
soundly refresh and rejoice me, to hear the 
Lord continually calling unto me, 4 4 My 
son, my son, despise not the chastening 
of the Lord, nor faint when thou art cor- 
rected of him." And blessed be God, that 
doth not despise the affliction of the afflict- 
ed, nor hides his face from him. It was the 
consideration, that God had sanctified and 
glorified himself, by striking a holy awe 
and dread of his majesty into the hearts of 
his people, that made Aaron hold his peace ; 
and if the Lord will glorify himself by my 
family, by these awful strokes upon me, 
quickening parents unto their duty, and 
awakening their children to seek after the 
Lord, I shall desire to be content, though 
my name be cut off. And I beseech you, be 
earnest with the Lord for us, that he would 
keep us from sinning against him, and that 
he would teach us to sanctify his name; and 
though our branches have forsaken us, yet 
that he, who hath promised to be with his 
children in six troubles, and in seven, would 
not forsake us. My heart truly would be 
consumed, and would even die within me, 
but that the good will of Him who dwelt in 
the burning bush, and his good word of 
promise, are my trust and stay.' 



James SSeattfe. 



Extracts from the 1 Life and Character of James Hay Beattie,' 
by his father, James Beattie, L.L.D. 

' November 28, 1790. — I intend to write 
a short account of the life, education and 
character, of my son now deceased. It will 
innocently, and perhaps not unprofitably, 
amuse some hours of this melancholy season, 
when my mind can settle on nothing else. 
In order to convey a favourable notion of the 
person of whom I speak, I have nothing to 
do, but to tell the simple truth. 

To parents, and other near relations, in- 
fancy is very interesting; but can hardly 
supply any thing of narrative. My son's 
was in no respect remarkable, unless, per- 
haps, for a mildness and docility of nature, 
which adhered to him through life. I do 
not remember, that I ever had occasion to 
reprove him above three or four times ; bod- 
ily chastisement he never experienced at all. 
It would indeed have been most unreasona- 
ble to apply this mode of discipline to one, 
whose supreme concern it ever was to know 
his duty, and to do it. 



245 



The first rules of morality I taught him 
were, to speak truth, and keep a secret; 
and I never found that in a single instance 
he transgressed either. 

The doctrines of religion I wished to im- 
press on his mind, as soon as it might be 
prepared to receive them ; but I did not see 
the propriety of making him commit to 
memory theological sentences, or any sen- 
tences, which it was not possible for him to 
understand. And I was desirous to make a 
trial how far his own reason would go in 
tracing out, with a little direction, the great 
and first principle of all religion, the being 
of God. 

In general company, indeed, he was 
(though not awkward,) modest to a degree 
that bordered on bashfulness ; and so silent, 
that some people would have thought him 
inattentive. But nothing escaped his obser- 
vation ; though what he had observed he 
never applied to any improper purpose. 
And I have known, not any other person of 
his, and very few persons of any age, who 
with so penetrating an eye discerned the 
characters of men. I, who knew his opin- 
ions on all subjects, do not remember any 
instance of his being in this respect mista- 
ken. Yet so careful was he to avoid giving 
22* 



246 



offence, that none, but a few of his most in- 
timate friends, knew that he had such a 
talent. 

In the end of June, 1790, a cough made 
its appearance ; and it was then I began to 
lose hopes of his recovery, as I have reason 
to think he also did ; he saw death approach- 
ing, and met it with his usual calmness and 
resignation. ' How pleasant a medicine is 
Christianity !' he said one evening, while he 
was expecting the physician, whom he had 
sent for, in the belief that he was just going 
to expire. Sometimes he would endeavour to 
reconcile my mind to the thought of parting 
with him ; but, for fear of giving me pain, 
spoke seldom and sparingly on that subject. 
His composure he retained, as well as the 
full use of his rational faculties, to the last ; 
nor did his wit and humour forsake him, till 
he was no longer able to smile, or even to 
speak, except in a whisper. 

One day, long before the little incident 
last mentioned, when I was sitting by him, 
soon after our second return from sea, he 
began to speak in very affectionate terms, as 
he often did, of what he called my goodness 
to him. I begged him to drop that subject ; 
and was proceeding to tell him, that I had 
never done any thing for him but what duty 
required and inclination prompted; and that, 



247 



for the little I had done, his filial piety and 
other virtues were to me more than a suffi- 
cient recompense, — when he interrupted me, 
(which he was not apt to do,) and, starting 
up, with inexpressible fervour and solemni- 
ty, implored the blessing of God upon me. 
His look, at that moment, though I shall 
never forget it, I can describe in no other 
way than by saying, that it seemed to have 
in it something more than human, and what 
I may, not very improperly perhaps, call an- 
gelic. Seeing me agitated, he expressed 
concern at what he had done, and said that, 
whatever might be in his mind, he would not 
any more put my feelings to so severe a trial. 
Sometimes, however, warm sentiments of 
gratitude would break from him ; and those 
were the only occasions on which, during 
the whole course of his illness, he was ob- 
served to shed tears, till the day before his 
death; when he desired to see his brother; 
gave him his blessing; wept over him, and 
bid him farewell. 

As his life drew towards a close, his pains 
abated considerably, and he passed a good 
deal of time in sleep. When I asked him 
whether his dreams were distressing, he said, 
" No ; for he sometimes dreamed of walking 
with me ; which was an idea peculiarly 
soothing to his mind. 1 ' 



248 



At seven in the morning of the nineteenth 
of November, 1790, he said his throat was 
dry, and desired a draught to be given him. 
Mr Wilson stept to the table to fetch it ; 
but before he got back to the bed-side, the 
last breath was emitted, without a groan, or 
even a sigh. 

I have lost the pleasantest, and, for the 
last four or five years of his short life, one 
of the most instructive companions, that 
ever man was delighted with.* But, "the 
Lord gave ; the Lord hath taken away ; 
blessed be the name of the Lord." I adore 
the Author of all good, who gave him grace 
to lead such a life, and die such a death, as 
makes it impossible for a christian to doubt 
of his having entered upon the inheritance 
of a happy immortality. 

January 18, 1791.' 



* The loss of this, and soon after, of another, and his only sur- 
viving son, Montagu, deeply affected the mind of Dr Beattie, 
He bore indeed, these great trials with an exemplary piety ; but 
they weighed upon his spirits, and even produced a temporary, but 
total, loss of memory respecting them. His accomplished biogra- 
pher, Sir William Forbes, relates the following most touching in- 
cident, concerning the younger son : ' Many times his father could 
not recollect what had become of him ; and, after searching in 
every room of the house, he would say to his niece, Mrs Glennie, 
" You may think it strange, but I must ask you if I have a son, 
and where he is." ' Life of Dr Beattie, vol. iii. 



33ereabetr parents dtotisolefc. 



c The springs of comfort opened in the Gospel extracted from an 
afFectionats address, by John Thornton. 

Reader, do you lament a son or a daugh- 
ter torn from your tender embrace 1 Have 
immediate recourse to the volume of inspir- 
ation. There you will not fail to find topics 
of the deepest interest, and themes of po- 
tent efficacy to assuage your pain and revive 
your spirit. 

You look with intense interest on the re- 
mains of that dear child, reposing in the 
coffin, or you fondly call up its image when 
those remains rest in the silent grave. But 
are you so enamoured of the casket as to 
forget the precious jewel ? Does the frail 
tenement of clay so engross your thoughts 
as to render you unmindful of the now eman- 
cipated and blessed inhabitant ? The spark 
of intelligence, which animated your belov- 
ed child, will continue to burn and shine 
when the natural sun shall be extinguished.' 
— 'In the world of spirits every injurious 



250 



bar, every chilling blast, every cause of dis- 
traction, or discouragement will be entirely 
removed. There the immortal mind will 
unfold and exert its noble faculties with a 
freedom and delight unknown to the boldest 
and the brightest genius on earth. 

That such as die in childhood are admit- 
ted into the regions of immortal glory, is a 
point so clear, as scarcely to require an ar- 
gument. 4 It is not the will of your heavenly 
Father, that one of these little ones should 
perish.' This is the language of the com- 
passionate Saviour, referring to the univer- 
sal Father, whose tender mercies are over 
all his works. They are the words of Him, 
who said, 6 Suffer the little children to come 
unto me and forbid them not, for of such is 
the kingdom of heaven.' The doctrine he 
has here taught us is replete with heavenly 
consolation. We need only look to Christ 
with a steady eye, and contemplate the ex- 
cellency of his character, the faithfulness of 
his truth, and the riches of his mercy, to 
find a tranquillity, which is above all price. 



Motives to resignation may be drawn from 
the spirit and conduct of good men placed 
in similar circumstances of trial. Some of 
God's sincere servants have lost their chil- 
dren under awfully severe circumstances, 
and yet have meekly bowed to the stroke of 
the divine hand. A more severe calamity, 
a more overwhelming judgment can hardly 
be conceived, than that, which fell upon 
Aaron, or" Eli, or the venerable patriarch 
Job. Yet were these humbled parents silent 
and submissive. No frantic cries, no bitter 
complaints, no fretful murmurs, escaped 
their lips. Doubtless their hearts were 
pierced with the keenest pangs ; but they 
owned and adored the justice of a right- 
eous God. Compare your trial with theirs, 
and you will see many circumstances of al- 
leviation, which you had perhaps overlooked. 

Octavia, the sister of the emperor Augus- 
tus, was said to be greatly distinguished for 
her virtues and accomplishments. But the 
untimely death of her son Marcellus threw 



252 



her into a state of depression and despair, 
from which she never recovered. The anec- 
dote, recorded by Servius of the effect upon 
her, of Virgil's beautiful lines in commemo- 
ration of that lamented youth, is highly char- 
acteristic of a mother's feelings. When the 
poet, reciting them in her presence, came to 
the name of Marcellus, so artfully supplied 
to make the close and climax of the pas- 
sage, Octavia fainted away. On her recov- 
ery she gave a most munificent present to 
him, who had consecrated to her sorrows so 
noble an effort of his genius. She survived 
the loss twelve years, the whole of which 
she spent in mourning, receiving no conso- 
lation from her other children, though nobly 
allied, and the mothers of flourishing fami- 
lies, but remained plunged in darkness and 
solitude. Had she possessed the solace and 
support of true religion, her exquisite sensi- 
bility would have been tempered with pa- 
tience, and turned into the course of active 
duty. 

The far-famed Cicero lost all self-com- 
mand, when his favourite daughter Tullia 
was torn from him by the hand of death. 
In vain did his friends labour to assuage his 
anguish ; in vain did they refer him to that 
philosophy, which he had so often himself 



•253 



recommended as the best guide and comfort- 
er of man. He gave himself up to the vio- 
lence of sorrow : and was so infatuated as 
to form the project of erecting a temple to 
Tullia, and worshipping her as a goddess. 

As a contrast to the instances here given, 
I will adduce an example from a better 
school. How unreasonable and extravagant 
does the conduct of Octavia appear com- 
pared with that of the viscountess Falkland, 
when placed in like circumstances. This 
christian lady lost a son in the blooming 
spring of life, who was just beginning to 
manifest the most brilliant talents and ami- 
able dispositions. She keenly felt the rend- 
ing stroke, and yet kissed the rod in the 
hand of her heavenly Father. After mourn- 
ing during the day, and by night watering 
her couch with tears, she would check her- 
self, and say, 1 Ah ! this immoderate sorrow 
must be repented of, these tears wept over 
again.' — Her fear of displeasing God al- 
layed the violence of grief. She betook 
herself to the Bible and to the throne of 
grace ; she listened to the kind counsel of 
her worthy pastor and of faithful friends, and 
like Hannah of old, exchanged gloom and 
perturbation for cheerfulness and serenity. 
It is true, the fits of maternal agony return- 
23 



254 



ed again and again, but the same divine con- 
solation healed her wounded spirit. She re- 
solved, that her precious time should not be 
wasted in useless regrets. She turned her 
attention to domestic duties, and to the va- 
rious plans of active benevolence. And 
thus she became an illustrious pattern of 
self-command and self-denial, of submission 
to God, and of love to man. 



Sorrowing not without hope. 

Tf death my friend and me divide, 
Thou dost not, Lord, my sorrow chide, 

Or frown my tears to see ; 
Restrained from passionate excess, 
Thou bidst me mourn in calm distress, 

For them that rest in Thee. 

I feel a strong, immortal hope, 
Which bears my mournful spirit up, 

Beneath its mountain-load ; 
Redeemed from death, and grief, and pain, 
I soon shall find my friend again, 

Within the arms of God. 

Pass a few fleeting moments more, 
And death the blessing shall restore, 

Which death hath snatched away ; 
For me Thou wilt the summons send, 
And give me back my parted fiiend, 

In that eternal day. 

Charles Wesley. 



& Setter on tlje Seat!) of a fabouttte 2Haugi)ter. 



The following letter was written by Dcgal Btj- 
channan, * an obscure peasant, who lived in the 
Highlands of Scotland, to a respectable citizen of 
Edinburgh, upon hearing of the death of one of his 
daughters, who was deservedly dear to himself, and 
all his family. 

We select only a few passages of this letter. The 
elevated and pious sentiments it expresses will be 
found an ample apology for the plainness of its style. 

TO MR H . 

Dear Sir, — I received a letter from Mr 
T. acquainting me with the death of your 
daughter, Jane. How it affected me, I can- 
not so well describe as Mr T. has done. 
What an alleviating circumstance is it in 



* The author of this letter, during a visit he once paid to the 
city of Edinburgh, went upon business into the house of a gentle- 
man, in whose parlour he saw a bust of Shakspeare, in alto re- 
lievo, with the following lines inscribed under it : 

1 The cloud-capt towers, the goigeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherits shall dissolve, 
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
Leave not a wreck behind.' 
The 'gentleman, perceiving Mr Buchannan's eyes attracted by 
these lines, asked him, if he had ever read any thing equal to them 



257 



your trial, that you have no reason to mourn 
as those who have no hope. Imagine, then, 
you hear your dear departed child adopting 
the language of her Redeemer, and saying, 
4 If ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because I 
am gone to the Father.' But how backward 
are our hearts to this duty of rejoicing ! 
Our passions often get the better of our un- 
derstanding as well as our faith ; and our 
memories, which are treacherous enough on 
other occasions, are ever faithful here ; and 
by cruelly mustering up all the amiable 
qualities of our departed friends in a long 
succession, open our wounds to bleed afresh. 
Nay, our imagination is set at work, and 
stuffs up their empty garments in their for- 
mer shape, when we miss them at bed or 
board. It is truly surprising, that when our 
understandings and judgments are fully con- 
vinced of the equity of God's ways, and that 
his whole paths are not only truth, but mer- 
cy, to such as fear him, that it has so little 
influence in silencing the inward murmurs of 
our souls. Instead therefore of poring over 



in sublimity — ' Yes, I have, (said Mr B.) the following passage 
in the book of Revelations is much more sublime — " And I saw a 
great white throne, and him that sat on it, from whose face the 
earth and the heaven fled away, and there was found no place for 
them." ' (Rev. xx. 11.) 1 You are right,' said the gentleman, ' I 
never saw the sublimity of that passage before.' 

23* 



258 



our wounds, and refusing to be comforted, 
we should endeavour to acquire the blessed 
art of letting our faith trace out our friends 
in the regions of bliss and immortality; 
where, to use Milton's words, 'they walk 
with God — high in salvation, and the climes 
of bliss.' Our Lord once entered into Je- 
rusalem with a grand retinue, and he had a 
demand for an ass to ride upon, that he might 
fulfil an ancient prophecy concerning him- 
self. A messenger was despatched for the 
ass ; and if the owner refused him, he had 
positive orders to tell him, that 'the Lord 
had need of him.' If your heart complains 
that your child was too soon loosed from 
you, saying, why was my dear child so sud- 
denly snatched from me, in the bloom of 
youth ; when I expected she should be the 
comfort of my old age, and sooth my pains 
and distress ; — Why, the same answer stands 
on record for you, ' the Lord hath need of 
her.' He had need of more virgins in his 
train, and your dear child was pitched upon. 
Therefore rejoice in her honour and happi- 
ness. Our Lord hath gone to heaven to pre- 
pare mansions for his people, and he sends 
his spirit to prepare his people for their 
mansions ; that they may be fit to act agree- 
ably to the great end of their calling, and to 



259 



fill their thrones to the honour of that God, 
who hath called them to glory and honour. 
He then crowns them with endless happi- 
ness. Some have a longer time of probation 
than others. The great dresser of God's 
vineyard knows best when to transplant his 
fruit-bearing trees. We ought, therefore, 
always to acquiesce in his wisdom. And 
why should you or Mrs H. who rejoiced at 
her first birth, mourn at her being admitted 
into the number of the spirits of the just 
made perfect ; when it is certain that many 
who rejoiced with you at her birth, hailed 
her arrival on the coasts of bliss. Among 
those who rejoiced with you at her first birth, 
and saluted her on the heavenly, we may 
safely mention Mr and Mrs P. and others 
of your pious relations and neighbours, who 
have got crowns on their heads, and palms 
in their hands, since her first birth. But I 
see that this subject would lead me beyond 
the bounds of a letter. May the Lord bless 
your remaining children, and preserve them 
to be the comfort of your age ; and form 
them to be vessels of honour, fit for the 
Master's use. I have only to add, that from 
my very soul I sympathize with you, and 
the rest of your dear family, in your loss, 
which is her gain and glory, Yours, 

D. BlJCHANNAN. 



£o 1% ♦ on tjje IBmfy of a STouttfl €Wtr. 



Sweet child! that wasted form, 

That pale and mournful brow, 
O'er which thy long dark tresses 

In shadowy beauty flow — 
That eye, whence soul is darting 

With such strange brilliancy, 
Tell us thou art departing — 

This world is not for thee. 



No ! not for thee is woven 

That wreath of joy and woe, 
That crown of thorns and flowers 

Which all must wear below. 
We bend in anguish o'er thee, 

Yet feel that thou art blest, 
Loved one ! so early summoned 

To enter into rest. 



Soon shall thy bright young spirit 

From earth's cold chains be free, 
Soon shalt thou meet that Saviour 

Who gave himself for thee. 
Soon shalt thou be rejoicing, 

Unsullied as thou art, 
In the blest vision promised 

Unto the pure in heart. 



261 



Yes ! thou art going home, 

Our Father's face to see 
In perfect bliss and glory ; 

But we, oh ! where are we ! 
While that celestial country 

Thick clouds and darkness hide, 
In a strange land of exile, 

Still, still must we abide. 



O Father of our spirits, 

We can but look to thee ! 
Though chastened, not forsaken, 

Shall we, thy children be. 
We take the cup of sorrow, 

As did thy blessed son, 
Teach us to say with Jesus, 

1 Thy will, not our's be done.' 



Skelfafous (Eonsolatfon. 



From a discourse by the Rev. R. Morehead, preach- 
ed during the prevalence of a fatal epidemic in Edin- 
burgh, and particularly among the young children of 
his flock. 

'In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation and great 
mourning. Rachel weeping for her children. 3 

To a parent the very circumstances, which 
render his child of little value to others, are 
the most attractive. It is his delight to re- 
tire from the serious cares and busy occupa- 
tions of men into the unanxious scenes of 
childish playfulness ; to repose his thoughts 
upon some countenances, on which the world 
has left no traces of care, and vice has im- 
pressed no marks of disorder ; and to find 
within his own house, and sprung from his 
own loins some forms, which recall the im- 
age of primaeval innocence, and anticipate 
the society of heaven. When these inno- 
cent beings are torn from us, we suffer a ca- 
lamity, with which a stranger, indeed, will 
imperfectly sympathize, but of which the 
heart knoweth the bitterness ; and the sor- 
row may only be the deeper and more heart- 



263 



felt, that it must be disguised and smothered 
from an unpitying world. 

To such sorrows of the heart it is the of- 
fice of Religion to apply the words of con- 
solation ; and when the first tumults of grief 
are at an end, to inspire the soul of the 
mourner with loftier sentiments. She sug- 
gests, that in the kingdom of God there is 
no loss of existence ; that the hand of infi- 
nite wisdom changes, indeed, the sphere of 
action, in which the rational soul is destined 
to move, but never deprives him of the being 
which the hand of beneficence bestowed. 
She points to a higher world, in which the 
inhabitants are as little children ; and she 
hesitates not to affirm that the soul of infant 
innocence finds its way to that region of 
purity, the air of which it seemed to breathe 
while yet below. She speaks here with a 
voice of confidence, which may sometimes 
fail to be inspired, even from the contempla- 
tion of a long life spent in the practice of 
virtue. The best men have contracted many 
failings in the course of their earthly trial ; 
and when we commit their bodies to the 
dust, while Religion calls upon us to look 
forward to their destiny with holy hope, she 
yet permits some foreboding fears to cloud 
the brightness of the prospect. In less 



•264 



favourable cases, all that we can do is to 
withdraw our minds from the vices of the 
departed, and rather to fix them with ap- 
prehension and purposes of amendment 
upon our own ; to raise our thoughts at the 
same time to the perfect goodness of God, 
who seeth the secret springs of the heart, 
and judgeth not as man judges ; which will 
forgive whatever can be forgiven, and which 
hath no pleasure in the death of the wicked. 

But when we follow to the grave the body 
of untried innocence, we at the same time 
restore to the Father of spirits the soul, 
which he gave, yet unpolluted by the vices 
of time, and still an inmate meet for eter- 
nity. When the tears of nature are over, 
faith may look up with an unclouded eye, 
and see the Saviour, whose descent upon 
earth cost so many tears to the mothers of 
Bethlehem, now speaking comfort to the 
mothers of his people, and telling them, 
that he, who here below 6 suffered little chil- 
dren to come unto him,' still delights to 
throw around them the arms of his love, 
when, like him, they have burst the bonds of 
mortality. 

We are well aware of the influence of the 
world. We know how strongly it engages 
our thoughts, and debases the springs of our 



265 



actions ; and how important it is to have the 
spirit of our minds renewed, and the rust, 
which gathers over them cleared away. One 
of the principal advantages, perhaps, which 
arises from the possession of children, is, 
that in their society the simplicity of our 
nature is constantly recalled to our view ; 
and that when we return from the cares and 
thoughts of the world into our domestic 
circle, we behold beings, whose happiness 
springs from no false estimates of worldly 
good, but from the benevolent instincts of na- 
ture. The same moral advantage is often de- 
rived in a yet greater degree from the memo- 
ry of those children, that have left us. Their 
simple characters dwell upon our minds 
with a deeper impression. Their least ac- 
tions return to our thoughts with more force 
than if we had it still in our power to wit- 
ness them ; and they return to us clothed 
in that saintly garb which belongs to the 
possessors of a higher existence. We feel, 
that there is now a link connecting us with 
a purer and a better scene of being ; that a 
part of ourselves has gone before us into 
the bosom of God ; and that the same happy 
creature, which here on earth showed us 
the simple sources from which happiness 
springs, now hovers over us, and scatters 
24 



266 



from its wings the graces and beatitudes of 
eternity. 

To you, then, who have suffered the visi- 
tations of Providence, Religion unfolds the 
sources of consolation and improvement. 
She calls upon you to give the children, of 
whom you have been deprived, into the hands 
of your and their Father, and when the first 
pangs of affliction are over, to lift up your 
thoughts with that faith towards Him, which 
may at least enable you to meet them in his 
presence forever. Yet while she calls you 
not to mourn, she does not ask you to forget. 
You should remember whatever may con- 
tribute to your purity and virtue. You 
should sometimes meditate with holy emo- 
tion on those angel forms, which are gone 
before you ; and, amidst the temptations of 
the world, you should call to mind that their 
eyes are even now impending over you, and 
feel the additional link, which binds you to 
the higher distinction of your being. 



So a HBgttia Enfant 



Sleep, little baby ! sleep ! 

Not in the cradle bed, 
Not on thy mother's breast 
Henceforth shall be thy rest, 

But with the quiet dead. 



I've seen thee m thy beauty, 

A thing all health and glee ; 
But never then wert thou 
So beautiful as now, 

Darling ! thou seem'st to me. 



Mount up, immortal essence ! 

Young spirit! haste, depart — 
And is this death ! — dread thing ! 
If such thy visiting, 

How beautiful thou art 5 



Oh ! I could gaze forever 
Upon that waxen face ; 
So passionless ! so pure ! 
The little shrine was sure 

An angel's dwelling place. 



268 



God took thee in his mercy 

A lamb untask'd, untried ; 
He fought the fight for thee, 
He won the victory, 

And thou art sanctified I 



T look around, and see 

The evil ways of men j 
And oh ! beloved child ! 
T'm more than reconciled 

To thy departure then. 



Now, like a dew-drop shrined 

Within a chrystal stone, 
Thou 'rt safe in heaven, my dove 
Safe with the source of love, 
The Everlasting One. 





B D 1.1$ 




THE END. 






1? 




c " ♦ , 



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